Grimm Tidings
by doctorb
Summary: A wandering, heartbroken dwarf forms an unlikely alliance with an arcane archer to battle a sorceror.


Chapter One

Life is good.

The thought pleased Yorg. It was a big thought, a thought worth chanting around the fire after a hunt. It was not the sort of thought that sprang into Yorg's head regularly. It was too abstract and poetic. That's why it pleased him. It caught the moment.

Yes, life was good. And today, life was very good.

Yorg reached over and picked up the counting stick that he kept beside his straw mattress. He laboriously counted the number of notches in the stick. Thirty. The magic number. Today the Lord Baltrog would be coming to town to collect taxes and ask Yorg about any problems. _That's_ why life was so good right now. For most of the month the citizens of Oakborder tolerated Yorg's authority with ill grace. That fat barkeep Harry Bandle would serve him his free drinks with a grimace and, Yorg was certain, a large splash of water. The women who worked in the pleasure house would submit to Yorg's embraces with undisguised loathing. As he patrolled the city, the citizens would be slow to step out of his way and housewives would throw their dishwater at his feet.

But the end of the month was different. Yesterday Harry had poured Yorg's drinks with a smile, even bringing out a bottle of very special grog. The women in the pleasure house had squealed with delight when Yorg visited and had fought over who would accompany him upstairs. The citizens not only stepped out of his way, they bowed and scraped. And he couldn't pass a butcher or baker without being showered with free sausages or loafs of sweet bread. Yes, life was good, and today would be even better. For the Lord Baltrog would not arrive until almost sunset so the town's citizens would be going out of their way to please Yorg, the Lord Baltrog's man in Oakborder, all day.

Yorg stretched, scratched himself vigorously, and rolled off his mattress. His few clothes were hung on pegs on the walls of his room in the back of the town hall. He chose his best trousers, the leather ones with the frills, a relatively clean jerkin, his chain mail shirt, and his boots freshly polished by the town saddler. He put on his hat of authority, a red leather cap with a feather in it, and strapped on his sword. The sword had belonged to a human Yorg had killed many years ago. The human had used it as a two-handed weapon, but for Yorg, three-quarters orc and almost seven feet tall, the weapon was a perfect for one-handed fighting.

Not that he had much cause to fight. Not in the Lord Baltrog's town.

Yorg opened the door and stepped out into the mountain air of Oakborder. He breathed deeply and tried to decide what he should do first. Walk by the baker and sample his wares for breakfast? See if the butcher was open yet and demand a small pig be slaughtered and roasted for his lunch later in the day? So many possibilities. But first, a tour of town so that everyone would know that Yorg, the Lord Baltrog's man, was on the job and open for bribes.

He shut his door but did not bother to lock it. Who would rob the Lord Baltrog's man? Only someone with a death wish.

As he stepped onto the main street, Yorg was pleased to see that the town's people had been preparing for the Baltrog's visit. Cobblestones had been scrubbed and some storefronts had a new coat of whitewash. Everything seemed in order, a fact that he would be careful to take credit for when he met Lord Baltrog this evening.

Yorg strutted down the main street, still deserted at this time of the morning, whistling loudly. He found himself heading towards the bakery. A nice stuffed bread, that would be just fine. Perhaps washed down with some brandy from the tavern. He would have to wake that fat barkeep up to get served, but Harry would not complain today. No he would not.

Life was very good indeed.

How wrong his parents had been! His half-orc mother had told him to avoid towns and cities and to make his way as a hunter in the great forests of southern range. His father, an orc, had been even more dismissive. War was all that counted for him. Killing men, killing women, just killing.

Yorg had nothing against killing, or hunting for that matter, but they were a lot of work. The exertion, practice, and danger that his parents' predilections demanded were simply too much for Yorg. And so when a minion of Lord Baltrog approached him some years ago, Yorg had jumped at the chance for a cushy job in Oakborder. Free room and board, free women, and special treats at the end of the month. This was so much better than life in the orc and half-orc camps that Yorg could never imagine going back, not even to visit his parents. If they were still alive.

So wrapped was he in his thoughts that Yorg walked ten feet past Harry's tavern before he realized something was amiss. The tavern stood on the corner of the main street and the little alley known as Keep's Lane. It seemed to Yorg that when he had walked past the alley he'd seen a shape, something about twenty feet from the main street. Or had he? He had been too busy thinking about how he would spend the rest of the time before Lord Baltrog arrived to pay attention.

Yorg backtracked to the alley and looked again. Yes, there was something. A large bundle, or a sack maybe, lying just across from the back door of the tavern.

Who would put out rubbish on the day that the Lord Baltrog was arriving? Who would be so stupid as to incur Yorg's wrath? Whoever it was, he would not only have to clean up the mess, he would have to pay Yorg not to report the infraction to Baltrog. And since Baltrog was coming this very day, Yorg could demand a very sizeable bribe indeed.

Yorg drew his sword and headed down the alley.

As he drew closer he recognized the shape as a body.

Suddenly life was not so good. If someone had been murdered in Oakborder the Lord Baltrog would not be pleased. Yorg was not only supposed to collect taxes and keep notes on who grumbled about Baltrog's reign, he was supposed to be the arm of justice in the town. That was the rational behind the Baltrog's authority: in return for taxes and abject obedience, Baltrog promised an end to bandit raids from the monsters of the mountains and an end to crime. He had delivered the former; as his man in Oakborder, it was up to Yorg to enforce the latter.

Standing over the body, Yorg was surprised at how small it was. A child? No, a dwarf. Man or woman, it was lying on its face in the dirt.

Yorg hooked the toe of his boot under the side of the body and flipped it over. As it rolled it gave a groan. It's not dead! Maybe this could work to his advantage. He could haul this dwarf before Baltrog and claim he was a criminal whom he'd caught in the act of breaking into a temple.

The dwarf, which was clearly male, certainly looked like a criminal. His clothes, which may have been fine once, were dirty and worn. His hair was tangled and his long, brown beard matted. He smelled like he had not washed in weeks and he reeked of alcohol. Yorg noticed a broken bottle lying beside the dwarf. He may have stolen it from the tavern and come out here to finish drinking, finally passing out in a stupor. Public drunkenness was a crime in Oakborder.

Yorg hunched down to examine the dwarf closer. His clothes _had_ been good at one time, very good. And the chainmail that Yorg could see in the opening of the dwarf's collar looked to be of extremely high quality, much better than the chainmail that Yorg was wearing. The dwarf's left hand clutched at something that was attached to a leather thong worn around his neck. Something precious? Gold?

Yorg reached out to open the clenched hand but stopped when he noticed that the dwarf's hand was disfigured. It was missing the pinky. Strange. The rest of the hand seemed fine. How could someone lose his smallest finger? What kind of accident or fight would do that?

Yorg reached forward again and opened the fingers of the dwarf's hand. Inside the hand he found a small leather pouch.

Yorg put down his sword and gingerly opened the pouch. He reached in and pulled out its contents. It was a finger, old and dried, decorated with a gold ring.

"That's mine."

Yorg fell on his backside in surprise. The dwarf hadn't moved, but had opened his eyes and was staring at him. His eyes were a bright green.

Yorg scrambled to his feet and grabbed up his sword. He still held the finger in his left hand.

"Mine now," he said. "I am Yorg, the Lord Baltrog's man."

"I don't care if you're Moradin's handmaiden. The finger's mine." The dwarf wearily held up his mutilated left hand to prove it.

Yorg looked at the finger he was holding. It was the dwarf's? Why would a dwarf carry around his own severed finger? It made no sense. Better to let Lord Baltrog get to the bottom of this.

"You come with me. The Lord Baltrog deal with you tonight." Yorg puffed his chest out. "I am the Lord Baltrog's man."

"You said that," said the dwarf. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he rolled to his side and slowly got to his feet, groaning with the effort. "I've slept in more comfortable alleys," he said.

He turned to face Yorg. "Now give me back the finger."

"No! You come with me! I am . . ."

"The Lord Ball-bag's man, yes I know. But the finger is mine. It has . . ." The dwarf paused, "sentimental value."

"You are criminal! Lord Baltrog will show you his power." Yorg couldn't believe that this dwarf, this dirty dwarf, would question his authority. He may not have heard of Lord Baltrog, but he should know his superior when he met him. Yorg was twice as tall as the dwarf and, as far as he could see, better armed. To prove the point he started to raise his sword.

The dwarf did something very fast with his right hand.

Yorg didn't understand the movement, but before he could decipher it a flood of warmth on his chest distracted him. He reached up to touch his neck. His finger came away wet with some dark liquid. Like blood. Yorg started to ask the dwarf about this but then saw that the dirty little man held a piece of the broken bottle in his hand. That was strange. And when Yorg started to shout, "I am the Lord Baltrog's man," he found that he could not breath. At all.

And then things got very strange indeed. Yorg found himself falling backwards, grabbing at his slashed throat, dropping his sword. As he hit the ground his pain-numbed mind could only form one thought: life is good.

But then he found himself falling into a cold, dark place that was not good.

Not good at all.

Chapter 2

The Lord Baltrog stared at the body of Yorg. There was no expression on his long, bland face. He might have been looking at a flower, an animal, or a rock. He noted the dried blood and the broken bottle. He picked up the smell of alcohol and something else, a smell of dirt, of unwashed bodies. But that might have been the orc.

"Who was he?" He asked quietly.

His chief advisor, an ancient gnome, stepped forward and checked the scroll he had in his hand.

"Yorg," he said. "Three-quarters orc. Recruited five years ago. A good hand at collecting taxes and enforcing law. Stupid and venal. Accepted a lot of bribes."

"A loss?"

"No sir," said the gnome. "Easily replaced."

"Still," said Lord Baltrog.

"Still," agreed the gnome.

"I'll start with the tavern," said Baltrog. He walked back to the main street where his retinue of bodyguard, advisors, and sycophants waited. They were a strange crew, made up of half-orcs, humans, a few halflings, and a few drow. They were all well-dressed and armed.

Baltrog opened the door to the tavern. When his largest bodyguards surged forward to join him, he waved them off.

"I think I can handle it," he said, and went inside.

The tavern was dark. Tallow candles and smoking oil lamps lit the room. A small coal fire sputtered in a grate in the corner. Behind the bar was a crude painting of a merchant ship being tossed on the waves. Beneath it were written the words "The Merry Hope" in crude letters.

As soon as Baltrog entered the twenty or so customers who had been chatting loudly about the spectacular news – Yorg was dead! – fell silent. A few pulled off their caps.

"Good evening," said Baltrog. No one answered, though a few bobbed their heads.

Baltrog crossed to the bar and sat on a stool. Harry Bandle stood behind the bar, frozen in fear.

"A drink, please," said Baltrog.

Harry could only repeat the request: "A drink?"

"A drink."

Harry forced himself to smile. "A drink! Of course! A drink for the Lord Baltrog. Only the best from Harry's tavern." Harry ducked under the bar, rattled a lock, and came up with a dust-covered bottle sealed with wax. "I've had this for twenty-one years. Never had a reason to open it until tonight. The Lord Baltrog in Harry's tavern!"

Sweating furiously, his hands shaking, Harry managed to break the seal, pull the cork, and pour a glass of the green liquid into the best glass he could find. He placed it gingerly in front of Baltrog and stepped back, once more frozen in fear.

The bar patrons watched Harry. Every one of them knew the story of that bottle. Harry had bought it from a merchant twenty-one years ago when he had heard that his brother John, captain of the trading vessel Merry Hope, had been lost at sea. He had sworn to everyone in the bar that his brother was alive, and that one day he would walk through his tavern door and the two of them would open the bottle and share a drink together. He told that story to everyone who entered his tavern. Everyone except the Lord Baltrog.

Baltrog savoured the attention of the crowd. He took up the glass, examined the colour of its contents by the light of a lamp, swirled the liquid around, smelled it deeply, and finally took a delicate sip. He held the fiery liquid in his mouth for a second, and swallowed. He smiled.

"It's very good."

Everyone in the room breathed a sigh of relief. A few coughed and hummed to cover the sound.

Harry let out a great breath of relief. "Only the best for the Lord Baltrog," he said.

Baltrog took another sip, then rested his elbows on the bar and leaned forward. He motioned Harry to come closer. Harry, surprised by the intimacy of the gesture, awkwardly leaned towards the Baltrog. Baltrog grabbed hold of Harry's earlobe and held it tight.

Baltrog said, very quietly, "Someone killed my man."

Harry almost lost control of his bladder.

"Who didn't like him?" Asked Baltrog, still holding Harry by the ear.

Harry was about to protest his undying love for Yorg, about to declare his intention to marry and have daughters so he could offer one to the enforcer as soon as she was of age. He would have gone to explain how Yorg was universally adored by the citizens of Oakborder and how the townspeople were devastated by his untimely death. He would have said all of this, but he felt something in his head. A twisting, painful presence, as though there was a small worm eating at the front of his brain. He was about to scream in panic and pain when he realized that the worm was the Lord Baltrog probing his mind.

"If you lie to me," whispered Baltrog, "I will know."

"Everyone hated him," said Harry. "But we were afraid of him. We wouldn't have killed him."

Baltrog stared deep into Harry's face, then smiled and let go of his ear. "Good," he said. "The truth."

Baltrog spun on his stool to face the room. "So," he said, "Any ideas? Who killed my man?"

The customers shuffled uncomfortably. No one would look Baltrog in the eye, but several looked at Harry.

"It might have been the dwarf," said Harry quietly.

Baltrog slowly turned back to face Harry.

"Dwarf?"

"He came into town yesterday afternoon," said Harry. "He looked down on his luck, like he had been sleeping rough. But he had gold and he paid to have his battle axe sharpened at the smith's."

Tom Irontone, the town blacksmith, a massive man, spoke softly from a corner of the room. "It was as fine a weapon as I have ever seen. It held an edge that would split a blade of grass."

Harry continued: "He came in here later in the day and had dinner. Then he made me a wager."

"A wager?" asked Baltrog.

"He bet me two gold pieces against a two pitchers of ale that he could hold onto to this bar with one hand and touch the far wall with his finger at the same time." The wall was a good twenty feet away.

Intrigued, Baltrog asked, "And what did you do?"

"I took the wager," said Harry. "The dwarf held onto the bar with his right hand, then used his left to reach into a pouch he carried on a thong around his neck. He pulled a finger from the pouch, his own he said. And, in truth, he was missing the pinky on his left hand. Then he threw it against the far wall."

Harry looked embarrassed. "He won the bet."

"Then?" asked Baltrog.

"Then he got drunk," said Harry. "And asked about a couple that he said he was seeking. A woman dwarf, by the name of Griselda, and an elf. A bard. By the name of Songsinger, or Songweaver. Something like that."

"Why was he searching for these two?"

"He didn't say," said Harry. "But I wouldn't want to be that elf if he every catches up with him."

"Did he give his name? asked Baltrog.

"Grimm," said Harry. "He said his father was the thane of the Grimm mountain tribe. It meant nothing to me."

Baltrog processed the information. A vagabond dwarf was odd enough, but one who had a masterwork weapon and was pursuing a vendetta against an elf and a female dwarf, well that was very odd indeed. Baltrog knew dwarves to be fiercely territorial and devoted to their clans and caves. This did not make any sense at all.

He concluded that it was probably true.

"And which way was he going?" he asked.

"My lord, I don't know. But he said he had come from Luganton, so he was probably headed on the western road towards Torn," said Harry.

Baltrog thought. There was only one road into Oakborder. If the dwarf had come from the foothill town of Lugaton, there was only one way out of Oakborder. He would be headed west, over the crest of the mountains, and down to the peninsula. It was a journey of two days on foot, one by horse, but there was no way to go except forward. The valleys that framed the road were steep and so densely wooded that they were impassable to all but wild creatures.

Baltrog stood up quickly, causing some of the more nervous customers of the bar to gasp. "Thank you," he said. "You've been most helpful." He placed a silver coin on the bar. "And thank you for the drink."

"My lord," said Harry, "There's no charge."

"Oh, but I insist," said Baltrog. He spun on his heel and swept from the room.

There was a moment of silence in the tavern as the door slammed shut.

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Harry as he ran into the back room.

###

The Lord Baltrog sat in the town hall's main room, the gnome at his left elbow and three of his best bodyguards standing before him.

"My representatives in the towns of the range must be accorded respect," Baltrog said as he examined the back of his hand. "They are _my_ representatives. They stand for _me_. So this dwarf must be found and made an example of."

One of the guards cleared his throat. "Shall we chase him, my lord?" he asked. "We can catch him by tonight."

Baltrog considered before replying. "No, I think not. The village is volatile. We need a solid presence here for the next few days. And we have to teach them a lesson."

He thought for a moment. "Remind me about the village," he said to the gnome.

The gnome closed his eyes and began to recite, "Oakborder, population 450, mainly human. Trade, some crafts, hunters, waystation for the road. One tavern with rooms, blacksmith, leather worker, the usual guilds. Liberated seven years ago. Punctual with the taxes. Quiet. No problems."

"Well," said Baltrog, "Not the sort of place that we want to lose. And its position on the road is strategic. "

He turned towards the gnome. "Who do we know between here and Torn?"

The gnome reached into the leather bucket that he wore on a strap over his shoulder. He pulled out a scroll and examined it. His brow furrowed and his lips moved silently as he worked his way through the many scripts and languages. After a minute he found something.

"Oh," he said. "This is nice."

He looked up at the Lord Baltrog. "It's an old friend," he said.

They both smiled.

Chapter Three

The room tilted and changed colours.

Yolanthe knew it was about to happen. Her ferret had raised its back and howled just seconds before. It had never made a noise like that before and Yolanthe sensed that it was reacting to the presence of magic.

In the seconds between the ferret's yowl and the tilting of the room, Yolanthe had time to form two thoughts. The first was one of despair. Not again, she thought, not now.

The second was more rational: how had he found me? Yolanthe was sure her escape had been perfect. She had spent three years serving the Lord Baltrog, allowing him – no, not allowing, he did not ask – to invade her mind and use her body to spy and kill. During the last year of her servitude she had planned her escape carefully. She had acquiesced to him in everything, even pretending to enjoy his presence in her brain. She had fulfilled her missions perfectly and pretended to be ambitious to climb the ranks of his cabal. She had secured his trust.

Then one day she had asked, casually, with a mind as blank of guile as she could make it, if she could go into the nearest town and buy some supplies for her arrow crafting. She had explained many times earlier that she did not trust Baltrog's other minions with the task of choosing feathers and wood. Baltrog had agreed without lifting his head from the scroll he was studying, but Yolanthe had persisted so as to make the excuse flawless.

"But my lord," she had said, "I'll need money for the supplies."

Baltrog still did not look up. "See Grimestoke," he said, and waved her off.

She had gone directly to the wizened gnome who served as Baltrog's factotum, but she was filled with secret terror as she did so. Grimestoke was cunning and, as far as Yolanthe could discern, omniscient. But the little man had opened the purse and given her a few gold pieces. She demanded a few more, which he gave grudgingly. "I'll want records and the change," he grumbled and returned to transcribing a book.

Yolanthe had turned to leave when Grimestoke had called out after her, "What's in your pack?"

Yolanthe froze. She set her face and then turned. "My bow and some sample arrows. I have to compare materials."

The gnome chewed on the end of his goose quill. "Let me see," he said.

Yolanthe took off the pack, untied it, and tossed it to the gnome. He held her gaze for a minute, and bent down to peek in the pack. He considered it for a minute, then sat up and began writing again.

Yolanthe strode over, picked up the pack, glared at Grimestoke, and then walked away, forcing herself not to run.

She had gone into the town and she had bought the arrow-crafting supplies, then, as she started to walk out of town and back towards Boltrag's camp, she paused in front of a tavern, pretending to be thinking about a drink. If any of Boltrag's minions were watching, they would have seen someone considering skimming some change for an illicit pint. Yolanthe pretended to vacillate, then looked around guiltily and entered the tavern. Once inside she had ordered a drink and complained loudly that it wasn't a fair measure. Arguing with the barkeep made sure that everyone in the room had noticed her presence. She took a table, glared at the other occupants until they looked away, then surreptitiously spilled her drink on the floor under the table. She lifted the glass, making sure that her hand concealed the fact that was empty, and had shouted out, "A toast to Lord Baltrog!" Surprised, and suddenly afraid, the other tavern patrons had shakily raised their drinks in a muttered toast.

Yolanthe had slammed her empty glass on her table and cried to the barkeep for another. Before he could come over to replenish the glass of this supporter – perhaps affiliate? – of the Lord Baltrog, Yolanthe had stood up and loudly asked, "Where can a woman squat in privacy?"

Blushing, the barkeep had gestured to a door just to the side of the bar. Yolanthe pointed at her empty glass and marched across the room and through the door. The jakes was a small, reeking room with a window set high in the wall. Yolanthe pressed her feet against one wall, her hands on the other, and walked up the wall to the window, opened it with a dagger that she had hidden in her hair, slipped into the alley and began to run for the hills, all before the barkeep had finished topping her drink.

She ran for fourteen hours. She stopped to drink from a stream and stretch her muscles for two hours, and then she ran for twelve more. She slept for four hours, then began climbing the mountains. It took two days to reach the ridge. Once on the other side, she allowed herself a full night's sleep and meal of a raw fish that she scooped from a mountain stream. She travelled for a week, backtracking, covering her tracks, setting up elaborate fake scent trails, never lighting a fire, carefully covering the signs of her meager camps. She avoided contact with anything that could speak and travelled as much as possible at night.

Then she had found the cabin. It was in the middle of a south slope of the mountains, high above the road that led from Oakborder to the peninsula. It was not built in a clearing but the natural space between four huge trees. It was so lopsided and covered with moss that it appeared almost organic. Someone with less skill might have walked within a few feet of its door and never noticed that it was there.

Yolanthe had watched it for a full day, sitting in a tree, not moving, before she was satisfied that it was deserted. Even then she approached it carefully, wary of pitfalls and other traps that an absentee hunter might set to protect his shack. But it was clearly long abandoned. No one except for field mice and spiders had been in it for years. All the smells of habitation had long fled, and Yolanthe could find no hints of recent occupancy in the one small room. Someone had built this cabin for his private use long ago, then had left, or died, and the secret location had gone with him. It had fallen into disrepair: the floor was rotten in places, the stove pipe leading from the small cast-iron oven was rusted through in spots, the two small windows were empty of glass, and the roof leaked more water than it kept out.

It was perfect.

Yolanthe spent two days checking the surrounding area. There were no roads or paths until the Oakborder road, almost five miles down the slope. The cabin was set midway on a southern slope, and the southern exposure combined with the shadows cast by the mountains that rose from the other side of the valley kept the cabin out of the sun.

She wrapped her bow and arrows in an oilcloth she found on the remains of the sleeping pallet in the cabin and buried it a mile to the east of the cabin. Then she moved in.

She patched the cabin's roof, floor, and stovepipe. She built a privy down hill from the cabin. She found the nearest stream and carried water back to the cabin in buckets she made by weaving bark strips together. She set up trap lines. She carved a new bow and crafted new arrows, but was careful not to make them ostentatiously good. She hunted and fished. She lit fires but only with the driest woods that would make the least smoke. She cured skins and dried meat.

One day she came home from trapping to find the ferret in the cabin, nibbling at a piece of dried meat. She had shooed it away, but it came back the next day with the gift of a dead rat. She let it stay.

And one morning she had awoken just before dawn and realized something was different. It was, it had to be, the vernal equinox, the real beginning of spring. She stepped out of the cabin and looked across the valley. For the first time in the months since she had been there, the sun came around the far mountain and shone on her face.

She had been here four months. She had frozen and starved and worked all day just to sustain life. She had never been so happy in years.

Three months later the ferret had yowled. The room tilted and changed colours in that fleeting hallucination which always presaged Baltrog's invasion of her mind. Between the yowling and the shift in the room, Yolanthe formed the two thoughts: not now and how did he find me?

As Baltrog flooded her mind like a dark smoke filling the nooks and crannies of a labyrinth, she had time for one more realization: the cabin was perfect. She had never been so happy. The ferret had insisted on staying.

It was a set up. All of it.

As the last of her consciousness was drowned, the Lord Baltrog spoke from deep inside her mind.

"I've come for the rent," he said.

Chapter Four

Is there anything as cold as the frost in a mountain valley?

Yes, thought the dwarf as soon as the question entered his head. The smile of a woman saying goodbye.

Voltag Grimm let out a grunt of rage. He had promised himself that he wouldn't play these maudlin games. That he would trade his melancholy for a righteous, burning anger. And here he was composing poetic phrases in his head. He was thinking like a bad balladeer. Like a second-rate bard.

Bard. That was something else Voltag had promised he would not think about. At least not yet. Not until the elf was within harm's way. Not until Voltag felt his axe splitting the air on its arc towards the elf's neck. Then he would think about bards. For now, he'd think about . . .

What?

Breakfast.

That was a start. It might ease the pounding in his head. How much had he drunk last night? There was wine with the dinner. A half-gallon. Then there were the two pitchers of beer he had won from the gullible bar tender. Then he had had a few brandies to settle his stomach. Then he had bought a bottle of something from the barkeep just as the tavern was closing. He had gone out in the alley to finish it. Then what? He had fallen asleep.

He must be getting old, he told himself. Years ago a drinking adventure of that size would have been considered a prelude to a night of real, dwarven drinking.

Now, what else happened?

Oh. Then the orc had stolen his finger and broken his sleep. And then Voltag had killed him with the broken bottle. That had been a mistake, but he had not been thinking clearly. Then he had searched the orc's body and found 130 gold pieces, a huge amount. He retrieved his axe from where he had hid it in the alley. Then he had hiked until almost midnight and set up this camp. He had woken up to the cry of the birds, and had been lying in his bedroll obsessing about the past and shivering ever since.

And now he had to start a fire, make breakfast, and start walking towards the Finger of Torn. At the same time he had to be careful of any retribution for the death of the orc. But the creature had clearly been some sort of thief. What would an orc be doing with 130 gold pieces? He had said something about working for the Lord Dog-Bag, but it seemed unlikely. Who would hire an orc to do anything? They were stupid, venal, violent creatures. It had probably been the mindless boasting of a monster trying to justify its evil ways. No one would miss such a creature.

Reluctantly he crawled out of his bedroll and stretched. He started a small fire with his flint and steel and took a squirrel he had killed the other day out of his pack. He slit its stomach with his dagger and gutted it. He speared it on a stick and held it over the flame until the fur caught fire. He pulled it back and scrapped the burned fur off the carcass, then planted the stick so that squirrel would roast over the fire. It would take at least half an hour. Enough time to exercise.

The dwarf unwrapped his axe from its oil skin. It was a perfect weapon. Not ornate, but perfect in heft and balance. The huge blade curved gently outward in a line that was so symmetrical it did not look like it could have been made by hand. It was a curve as perfect as the horizon at sea, as the edge of the moon, the circle of an iris. Its sharpened edge showed the true colour of the metal: a flashing blue-sliver. The counter balance to the blade, the weighted extension behind the handle shaft, was a curved mass that looked like an intricate knot. But one curve stood out from its center, functioning as a spike. Runes were carved into cheek of the blade.

The handle was of dark wood, cured for twenty years, carved so its almost imperceptible curves fit the dimensions of a dwarf's body. The bottom eight inches of the handle was wrapped in leather made from the hide of a dire boar. It was woven in a coarse braid structure that offered grip even when wet. And finally, a device known only on the axes of the Grimm Mountain clan's weapons, there was a looped thong of supple but strong leather that was affixed through a knurl in the butt of the axe's handle. This loop acted as a handle to secure the axe to a pack, but it could also be used to twirl the axe in like a sling around the head. This was a dangerous move practiced only by the most skilled of axe men.

The dwarf began by limbering up his wrists. He took the axe in his right hand, his grip two-thirds the way down the handle. He held it in front of him, the blade facing away. He spun the axe using his wrist muscles only, so that it described circles on the outside of his forearm. He did fifty revolutions, then reversed the direction and did fifty more. Then he did the same with his left wrist.

Next he warmed up his torso by grabbing the axe handle closer to the butt, holding it in front of him with the blade parallel to the ground, and sweeping his arm back as far as he could. He brought the axe forward in a horizontal arc, passed it to his left hand, let the momentum twist his body back, then swung it back in front of himself and passed it to his right hand, and back again fifty times. Next he did exercises for his shoulders, forearms, biceps and triceps, then did a series of squats. Then he swung the axe in a series of lazy figure eights in front of his body, transferring the twirling weapon from hand to hand with ease. Slowly he built up the speed until the blade began to whistle through the air. He had known dwarves of his clan to shape the counterweight of their axe blades to accentuate that whistle, comparing the sound to a battle cry, but this dwarf did not need such ostentation.

Sufficiently warmed up, he prepared for fighting practice. First he checked the sharpness of the blade's new edge by taking a clump of squirrel hair and blowing it gently off his hand into the air. Before it could float to the ground the dwarf swung his axe. He was pleased to see the blade slice the hair cleanly in half.

Voltag chose some four saplings at the edge of the forest. In his mind the dwarf assigned every sapling a weapon and a rate of attack. The one farthest to the right he thought as charging with a halberd lowered at his chest. The sapling to the left of that he imagined wielding a cutlass. No. Make that two cutlasses, with equal dexterity, and the monster wielding them was coming at a good run, about four paces behind the monster with the halberd. The next sapling was assigned a crossbow and two bolts. The first one would let fly at the same time the sapling with the cutlasses was within harm's way. It would take at least ten seconds for the next bolt to be armed and ready to fire. The last sapling the dwarf imagined as carrying a sickle. But the dwarf imagined this warrior as being so light on his feet, so graceful and so fast, so _elven_ , that the rustic tool became a flurry of cutting steel.

Voltag set his feet and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, reaching for a connection through the soles of his feet into the power of the soil and the living rock buried beneath. He summoned the history of his clan into his mind, tapping into the glories of their past. He tightened his grip on the axe handle, feeling the weapon's potential for destruction. Then he called to mind everything he knew about battle.

Momentum is everything in axe fighting, he reminded himself. Any swing that is designed to slam into its victim and stay there is a killing swing for the axe-bearer as well as the enemy. For if the path of an axe swing is aimed at an object that will stop the momentum and hold the blade, a minute or more of tugging the weapon free must follow. That is a minute in which the axe-bearer is weaponless and exposed. You wanted the axe to cleave _through_ , not _into_. So swing the axe at the shoulder, not the skull. Take off the arm and redirect the axe's momentum to the side and through another enemy. A humanoid whose arm has been lopped off at the shoulder is no longer a threat, no longer alive for all intents and purposes, though some would hang in for five minutes or more, spinning in agony of the ground.

Real axe fighting, axe fighting as it had been perfected by the Grimm Mountain clan so many centuries ago, was a dance of dwarf and steel, an eloquent maelstrom of violence. Grimm Mountain dwarves trained in axe fighting for years, learning the different swings, the different foot movements and pivots of weight that would redirect the blade on another killing arc. Unlike other dwarves, they treated the axe as a one-handed weapon. A second hand came to the handle only in the lightest touch, to redirect motion. But they trained both hands equally so that the weapon could be transferred from side to side without losing speed or accuracy.

And unlike other dwarves, the Grimm Mountain clan understood the defensive properties of the axe. Its blade, held flat against the chest made an impenetrable shield. And when the axe was spun in fast figure eights in front of the body, it made a blur of death-dealing steel that no sword could penetrate.

"But what about an arrow?"

Rolf, the dwarf's younger brother, had asked that question during the second year of their axe training. The axe-master, a massive red-bearded dwarf by the name of Branton Slaughter had sneered at the question. "Arrows?" he asked. "The weapon of a coward. There is no glory in killing from a distance."

"But an arrow could pierce the axe defense," persisted Rolf. "Arrows are fast. Crossbow bolts are even faster."

The axe-master's eyes had gleamed from beneath his bushy eyebrows. He was about to turn the question of this upstart boy into a lesson.

"What will you wager me, young master Grimm," he said, "If I can stop an arrow shot at my chest?"

Rolf became embarrassed, but since his friends and elder brother were looking on, he bravely said, "Four gold pieces!" His friends had gasped at the sum.

"Oh, I don't want your gold," said the axe-master, his voice sweet with sarcasm. "No, I've a better idea. If I win, you spend the night, all night, training. _Real_ training."

The axe-master's idea of training was a grueling, blister-inducing, muscle straining practice that bordered on sadism. What _real_ training could be the young dwarves could not guess, nor did they want to find out.

"And if I lose?" asked Rolf.

"Why then," said the axe-master, composing his face into what almost seemed to be a smile, "There'll be no training for the rest of the week, because I'll be dead."

The bet went ahead. A cross bow was fetched because it would take less skill to operate than a long bow and Rolf had no experience with bows at all. Slaughter stripped off his leather jerkin and shirt, revealing a torso so muscled and covered with scars that it looked like a storm-blasted tree. He went to one end of the hall with his axe while Rolf took a position some thirty feet away. The axe-master flexed and stretched, then picked up his axe. He began to spin it and flip it from hand to hand until soon it was whistling through the air. Slaughter looked calm, almost relaxed, as the axe became a blur.

"Alright boy," he shouted from behind the whirling axe. "Kill me if you can! But if you don't we have a date tonight."

Rolf raised the cross bow and aimed at the chest of the axe-master. He hesitated a second, then pulled the trigger. The bolt flew from bow so quickly the eye could not follow it. There was a cracking sound and the axe-master slowed his axe until it stopped. He was unharmed and smiling.

"Come here the lot of you," he shouted. The young dwarves ran over and formed a circle around Slaughter. When he was sure his audience was paying attention, he bent down and came up with a small piece of the bolt: the head with an inch of the shaft still attached.

He gave it to the nearest student to pass around.

"Note that, boys," he said. "The bolt did not shatter against the head of the axe. It was cut clean by the axe blade while in flight."

And, in truth, the bolt was cut neatly, almost surgically.

"Where's the rest of the arrow?" asked someone.

"Oh yes," said Slaughter casually. He bent down and came up with two more pieces of the bolt. He gave them to a student to pass around.

No one said a word. Two more pieces! Each cut as cleanly as the first! That meant that Slaughter had cut the arrow _twice_ as it passed through the swing of his axe. He had cut a flying bolt into three pieces. It did not seem possible.

Slaughter pulled on his shirt and hefted his axe onto his shoulder. "School dismissed for today, boys," he said. As he walked through the crowd he paused by Rolf. "I'll see you tonight lad. Oh yes, I will," he said happily. He left the hall whistling a dwarven drinking song.

Rolf never spoke of what that training night entailed, but for the next two days he could barely walk for the muscle cramps in his legs and back, and could not pick up a cup for the blisters on his palms. But he must have proved himself for after that Slaughter treated him with a grudging respect that he showed few students.

Voltag shook his head. He was not concentrating. He was falling into the trap of nostalgia, hunger for what was lost. He took a deep breath and composed his thoughts. "Your mind should be clear," the old axe-master had told his students. "No hate, no fear, no self. In battle you are a force, an element, as hard and unknowing as rock. You forget everything but purpose. You become the battle. We Grimm Mountain dwarves are not berserkers foaming at the mouth or boastful charlatans like the Needle Valley clan. We don't tie scalps to our belts or carve notches in our weapons to count kills. What is our cry?"

"My clan, my family, my axe!" The young dwarves shouted in response.

"I can't hear you, you snivelling pack of halfling girls!"

"MY CLAN, MY FAMILY, MY AXE!" the dwarves had roared.

"Exactly," said Slaughter. "But never my _self_. Forget yourself and you become your clan, your family, your axe. You become something greater than yourself. In battle, you become death."

The dwarf moved his mind through a series of mental exercises to purge his thoughts, to forget everything except the moment of battle. To forget even himself.

He was ready.

He began to swing the axe with his right wrist on the outside of his forearm. Then he switched to one-handed figure eights, done at a lazy speed, and he turned to face his enemies.

He imagined the first sapling charging with the halberd, a dangerous weapon because of its reach. He took one step forward, pivoted on his right foot, spinning around while taking the axe out of the figure eight and into a horizontal sweep with just enough of an angle to make sure it would catch the imagined halberd shaft, cut through it, then around and in front of the dwarf to stop the crossbow bolt that would have been fired by the third sapling. And now the second sapling, the one with the two cutlasses would be upon him, weaving a wall of slicing metal as complex as that old Slaughter had used to stop Rolf's crossbow bolt. An axe had the weight to smash through any sword made, but it could become tangled. Instead the dwarf redirected the swing low, cutting the sapling off a foot from the ground. Had it been a man the axe would have passed under the cutlasses and both his legs would have been severed. He would have bled to death in a matter of minutes. The dwarf did not stop to think about that but swooped the axe up, around his head, into his left hand, and back down to cleave through the top – the neck – of the crossbow-bearing sapling and then through the sapling with the halberd. He directed that cut down so it would have taken off the enemy's leg just below the hip.

That left one enemy, the fourth sapling, armed with a sickle.

The elf.

The dwarf allowed the axe to fall back into the easy one-handed figure eight. He advanced slowly on the sapling, imagining a tall, lean and handsome elf. A thought crept into his mind: I want you to die slowly. Many small cuts. Nicks. One across that pretty face, another across the chest. Then maybe a deeper one, across the stomach, so you can watch your guts pour out in the dirt. And then the real fun will begin. Then I begin _chopping_.

The dwarf tripped, his toe catching on a root. The axe, in mid swing, flew from his hand, spinning end over end, slamming into a tree trunk. The dwarf hit the ground hard and found himself on his stomach, looking at the base of the sapling. If it had been an enemy, he would be dead now.

"By Moradin's scrotum!" he cursed and pounded the ground with his fists. He had clouded his mind with hatred. He had let revenge distract him and he had become clumsy because of it. What would old Slaughter have said if he had done this in practice? If he had lost control of his axe? He could hear the axe-master now, shouting abuse in his face.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice.

The dwarf scrambled to his feet.

"Did you lose something in the grass?"

The speaker was a young woman, dressed in green leather and wearing a soft cap. She stood in the road looking at the dwarf. She was tall, slender, and muscular, her features slightly exotic. She had a compound bow slung over one arm and the arrows in the quiver she wore on her back were visible over her shoulder.

The dwarf picked up his axe as casually as he could.

"What would you be wanting?" he asked.

"I'm passing on this road to the peninsula," said the woman. "Nothing else."

The dwarf gave a curt nod. "They'll be nobody stopping you." He lowered his axe and headed back to his fire.

The woman nodded in thanks and began to walk by. When she passed Voltag's small camp she hesitated.

"It's been a long time since I ate," she said.

"Longer still if you don't start walking," said the dwarf.

The woman turned on him. "I was always told that dwarves were the most hospitable of people."

"You heard wrong," said the dwarf.

"A shame. I will tell everyone I meet to avoid a dwarf's hearth," she said, and turned to go.

The dwarf grunted. "You can have a bit of meat," he said. "But I eat in silence."

He hunkered down beside the fire and checked the squirrel.

The woman took off her bow, her quiver, and her small pack, and sat cross-legged on the ground across the fire from the dwarf.

The dwarf was satisfied that the squirrel was cooked, so he pulled the cooking stick out of the ground, and broke the squirrel, stick and all, in two with one hand. He did not seem to feel the burning fat that squirted onto his fingers. He tossed the half he had broken off across the fire to the woman, who caught it only to drop it again when it burned her hands. The dwarf smirked and began to eat the squirrel on the stick. The woman produced a small knife, speared her piece, blew the dirt off it, and began to eat delicately.

They ate in silence for five minutes. When they were sucking the last morsel of meat from the bones, the woman said, "I've just come from Oakborder. Can't say I liked it much. Are you headed there, or the peninsula?"

The dwarf gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Well, don't go to Oakborder. Dreary place. Unfriendly." She chewed some more meat. "Nice tavern, though. Harry's. Did you go there?"

The dwarf made another ambiguous sound.

The woman chewed some more, then said to herself, "The ballad of Griselda." She shrugged and kept eating.

The dwarf looked up at her. "What did you say?" he asked quietly.

"The ballad of Griselda," the woman said. "That was the song I heard at Harry's tavern last night. There was a bard there. Not very good, except for that song." She continued to eat.

"A bard?"

"Yes," the woman said. "I don't remember his name, but he was very good looking. An elf. That Griselda song was so romantic."

"An elf?"

"Hmm," said he woman.

"Was he with anyone?" asked the dwarf. "A woman? A small woman?"

"There were lots of people there, so there might have been. I had drunk a bit too much so I don't remember. Maybe." She tossed her bones into the fire and stood up. "Thank you, good dwarf, for your hospitality," she said. "If you're headed to the peninsula you may join me, but I travel fast."

The dwarf shook his head and stared into the fire. The woman bowed, and began to run down the road.

Chapter Five

The dwarf stood on the road leading down to Oakborder. It was not a big town, maybe a hundred buildings. Most lined the main road that the dwarf stood on. Some backed onto the lanes that branched off the road into the slopes on either side. There was only one other road of significance which led off the main road just inside the village proper, ran up the slope to the right, then looped back to join the main road mid village, forming the only major intersection. In the middle of that intersection was a small public square that was home to an old oak tree. The road that led up and along the slope was dotted with finer homes than those below. It was obviously the prestigious address in the village. The dwarf noted that the forest that surrounded the village changed from coniferous trees higher up, in the area he was standing, to deciduous trees further down, just about mid-way through the village.

Now, in the fading light, the village was almost deserted. The glow of candles, freshly lit, could be seen in windows. Dinner fires were being started and soon the smell of cooking would come from every house. It seemed a cozy place, a nice place to ply a trade and raise a family.

But that is not for me, thought the dwarf. It would do no good to think about a life that he would never have.

He checked his weapons. His axe was on his back, upside down, the handle just visible above his right shoulder. Its head was sheathed in a leather pocket on his backpack. He could reach his right hand up and yank the axe free, bringing it over his head in a deadly downwards swing. In his left sleeve was a dagger. His belt had two small push-daggers sheathed in it. There was a sling in his jerkin pocket. He carried a sap made of a leather bag filled with lead shot in his other pocket.

Everything was in place.

The dwarf touched the pouch he wore on the thong around his neck for good luck and began to walk down into Oakborder.

By the time he entered the village proper the smell of roasting meat was beginning to seep from various households. On another evening the scent would have made his mouth water, but tonight he had no stomach for food.

He passed no one on his walk to the tavern. When he passed Keep's Lane he glanced down it and was glad to see that someone had removed the body of the orc.

He came to the door of Harry's Tavern and stopped. He listened carefully. He could hear the sounds of voices within, the clink of tankards and the occasional laugh. The usual sounds of a tavern. But was there something else? The soft twang of a lute string being tuned? A voice humming a melody? He could not be sure but the more he listened the more he convinced himself the sounds were there.

He pushed open he door and stepped in. There were two tables occupied by working men, both near the bar. The fat barkeep, Harry, stood behind the bar. When he saw the dwarf he dropped the bottle in his hand and froze. The dwarf scanned the dark corners of the room. There was no one there, though at one table a bottle of something brown was set up with a few glasses. There was no musician and he could no longer hear the lute string.

The dwarf crossed to the bar. The drinkers sitting at their tables watched his every step.

"I hear that there was a bard here last night," he said.

"A bard," repeated Harry. His eyes flicked to the unoccupied table with the bottle on it, and back to the dwarf.

"An elven bard," said the dwarf. "He may have been travelling with a woman."

"A woman," said Harry. Once more his eyes flicked to the empty table.

The dwarf was about to continue his description when a thought rushed into his head. Stupid, he thought. So stupid.

He stepped back from the bar and spun towards the table in the corner, bringing his right hand up to the handle of his axe.

The light in corner of the room shimmered and three forms started to solidify out of the air. They were all sitting around the table. The middle one was a man, or at least man sized. The one of the right was very small, and the one on the left very big. Another orc?

The dwarf decided to go for the big one first and as he pulled the axe out of its sheath he began his charge. Within his first two steps, before he was up to speed, he had his plan formulated. The axe would be over his shoulder on the next step and swinging down and to the right by the time he got to the table. He would aim for the large form's neck and hope to sever it cleanly, carrying the swing on into the man. He would deal with the little one after that.

Another step. The axe was up and coming down. He brought his left hand up to the handle, gabbing it a bit higher than his right hand. The left gave a small pull and twist to direct the blade in an arc to the right, down through the big thing's neck.

The last step. The axe was coming down. He could now see that the big figure was an orc, or at least part orc. The blade was headed in a perfect swing towards the orc's neck and the beast had yet to move or raise a hand to defend itself.

The dwarf slammed into an unseen wall. The axe hit it first, sending a shock of force up his arms. Then his body hit it. His nose cracked and he lost sight for a second. His shoulder felt twisted out of joint. He hit the ground, seeing flashes of white light in the darkness.

When his sight refocused he found himself looking up at the orc's foot coming down on his throat. He tried to roll away but the orc was too fast, pinning and choking him. The dwarf reached both hands up to grab the foot, and pushed at it weakly.

The orc laughed and said, "Not so strong."

In fact, the dwarf was not using anything like his full strength to push at the foot, but he made a show of exertion. Then he slipped his right hand into his left sleeve, pulled out the dagger, and slashed at the inside of the orc's thigh, cutting the femoral artery just below the groin. A gush of blood poured down on the dwarf's face.

The orc's smile faded. He took his foot off the dwarf's neck and stumbled back.

The dwarf rolled onto his right side and got up into a crouch, the dagger held at arm's length in front of him. The orc had backed up to the wall and was clutching at his thigh. Blood squirted between his fingers. The dwarf could now see the other occupants of the table. The little one was a wrinkled gnome with a malevolent gleam in his eye. The other was a man with short white hair and expensive clothes. He was smiling gently.

Still holding the dagger at arm's length, the dwarf used his left sleeve to wipe at the blood on his face, both the orc's and his own from his broken nose. He did not want to hazard a glance behind him, but he imagined that he could back up to the door without being stopped. The other occupants of the tavern were no fighters. He began to shuffle backwards when he remembered his axe. It lay a good five feet away to the left. Could he leave it?

As he hesitated, the orc called out in a panicked voice, "My lord! I need healing!"

"I think not," said the white-haired man quietly. Without taking his eyes off the dwarf, he made a small gesture at the orc. The orc's lips fused shut then disappeared entirely. His mouth was gone. The orc's hands flew to his face, tugging at where his lips had been, but as soon as he raised his hands the blood began to pour out of the cut in his thigh. In a frenzy of fear the orc thrashed and clutched at himself, losing strength all the time. His blood was spreading rapidly across the floor. He slumped against the wall, trying to scream without a mouth and trying to stop the last ounces of his blood from pouring out.

He had no success at either.

The dwarf decided to abandon the axe for now.

He began once more to back up. The man stood up and pointed at him. There was a rush of blue light from his finger that hit the dwarf like a cold wind. The dwarf felt his limbs go numb. His breathing became laboured and he felt, though it made no sense, as though he were drowning. He felt himself slipping into an unnatural blackness. The last thing he heard was the chuckle of the gnome.

When the dwarf was unconscious the white-haired man walked over to him and looked down. Then he looked at the orc, who lay dead, slouched against the wall. Finally he looked at Harry, who stood, pale-faced and trembling, in the farthest corner of the bar.

"I'd like the town to come to the square tomorrow," he said in his quiet voice. "At dawn. Women, children, everyone."

He turned to the gnome. "Dinner?" he asked.

Chapter Six

Baltrog turned to the crowd. When he began to speak he did so in a quiet, rich voice. It was a trick he had learned long ago: never shout. Never raise your voice. It was undignified and unnecessary. People would fall quiet to listen to what he had to say, sometimes even holding their breaths. They did it this morning.

"Good people of Oakborder," he began. "As you know, our much beloved servant, Yorg, was murdered two nights ago by a traveller. I know you feel the sorrow of that loss as much as I do. But unlike you, I also feel anger. Anger at the man who killed Yorg, but also anger at you."

A few people near the back of the crowd gasped.

Baltrog continued, "For where were you when Yorg was murdered? Why didn't you rally to his aid? Pursue his murderer? Why did I have to come to town bring justice?"

He paused to let the questions sink in. "But my anger is a fleeting thing, like the anger of a father at a wayward but favoured child," he said. "And I have come to make sure this sort of outrage will never happen again.

"Let me introduce you to someone."

With a theatrical gesture, Baltrog swept his arm at the group of his followers who stood with their horses and wagons on the road leading down from the square.

From behind one of the wagons stepped a huge figure, covered in fur, wearing black leather armour and carrying the dwarf's axe on his hip like it was a dagger. It was a bugbear, or at least part bugbear. Its lower jaw extended a bit beyond its upper, allowing its bottom canines to poke up. It smiled grotesquely as it strode to Batrog's side, and it leered at the crowd, its small red eyes pausing significantly on the young women. Several children buried their faces in their mother's dresses in fear.

"Meet your new sheriff, Yorg's replacement," said Baltrog. "His real name is not pronounceable, so let's call him Gram. I'm afraid he is not as patient and kind as Yorg was, but then discipline and law are so much more important than kindness. Don't you agree? Besides enforcing the law, Gram will collect taxes which, because of the recent expenses that Yorg's death has incurred, will be raised to 340 gold pieces a month."

Someone at the back of the crowd gasped. A woman began to weep quietly. Baltrog continued. "Now," he said, "I have to leave you in Gram's capable hands. His first act of office will be the execution of Yorg's murderer. I ask you all to stay and watch justice being served. I look forward to seeing you all again next month."

Baltrog turned and left the square. The crowd parted to let him go. The rest of his retinue began climbing on the horses and wagons. Baltrog swung himself onto his mount, a beautiful white stallion. The gnome climbed onto the largest of the wagons.

A burly human standing beside the wagon reached into the back of it and dragged out a large, burlap sack. He let it drop to the ground, then climbed onto the wagon's bench beside the gnome and took up the reins.

Baltrog turned his horse to face the crowd. "A very good morning to you all," he said, then wheeled his horse and started off at a canter down the road. The other wagons and horsemen fell in behind him, followed by guards on foot who fell into an easy run. In a minute, they were out of sight.

The crowd turned back to Gram. He liked the attention. He crossed over to the sack in a few broad strides, picked it up with one great hand, and brought it back under the oak tree. He dropped it at his feet and looked up at the silent crowd. He smiled unpleasantly, and held up one finger for everyone to see. The claw on the finger, a good two inches long, had been filed to a vicious point. He leaned down and drew the finger along the length of the sack. It split open like the skin on an overly ripe fruit. Inside the sack was the dwarf. He hands were bound behind his back, his feet tied together. He was gagged with a dirty cloth. He glared up at the bugbear.

Gram smiled down at the helpless dwarf. A line of drool fell from his mouth onto the sack. He looked back at the crowd.

"Rope," he said.

For a second no one moved, then a man at the back of the crowd turned and ran into a nearby house. He came out quickly with a length of rope. The crowd parted to let him bring it to Gram. He got as close as he dared to the towering bugbear, then held the rope at arms' length.

"Rope hole," grunted Gram.

The man stared at the bugbear with frightened incomprehension.

"Rope hole!" shouted Gram.

"He wants a noose," someone in the crowd said.

The man with the rope, now shaking with fear, tied one end of the rope into a sloppy noose. He handed it to the bugbear then ran back into the crowd.

Gram threw the noose end of the rope over a branch of oak tree. He grabbed the dwarf by the front of his clothes and jerked him to his feet.

The dwarf was a mess. The orc's blood was still on his face, now dry and brown, and his own blood had run from his nose into his beard. His nose was swollen and he had two black eyes. He blinked at the crowd.

The bugbear forced the noose around the dwarf's neck and tightened it. He took up the other end of the rope and wrapped it around his huge right arm. He paused to make sure everyone in the crowd was looking at him, he set his feet, took a grip on the rope with his left hand too, and pulled.

The dwarf was jerked into the air. He dangled two feet off the ground, bucking and squirming as he strangled. His face turned red and his movements grew more and more desperate. Even through the gag the crowd could hear his grunts of pain.

Just as the dwarf's movements began to slow, Gram released the rope. The dwarf crashed to the ground. Gram reached down and loosened the noose, allowing the dwarf to grab a shuddering breath.

Gram turned to the crowd and laughed.

Everyone understood. The bugbear would take his time killing the dwarf. He would play with him, perhaps for hours, and they had to watch. Tears ran down the faces of some of the crowd, but no one made a sound.

Gram grabbed the rope again and wrapped it around his arm. He looked at the crowd and set his feet. But before he could pull a shrill whistle pierced the morning quiet. The crowd looked back in the direction of the whistle, somewhere on the road uphill from the square. The bugbear reluctantly turned in the same direction and scanned the street and the buildings. He sniffed the air. He picked out a new scent, one that did not belong to the members of the crowd. It was a combination of human and something else, mixed with earth, leather, and cured wood. He was sure he had smelled something like it before, but before he could place it he saw the faces of the people in the crowd whip back towards him, following the flight of something that streaked over their heads and headed towards . . .

Him.

The arrow entered Gram's left eye. It pierced the orbital socket bone, entered his very small brain, and stuck into the back of his thick skull. Dead, the bugbear stood for a full minute before he crumpled at the knees and began to pitch forward. His arm was still wrapped with the rope so as his body fell forward, the rope pulled it into a spin. He landed on his back, his tied arm stretched taut in the air.

The dwarf was lifted off the ground by the rope. Not as high as before, but still high enough to strangle. His body began to buck and heave.

No one in the crowd moved. They were paralyzed with thoughts and questions. Was Gram really dead? Would the Lord Baltrog blame them? Would their taxes go up again? How could they pay the raise that had already been announced? Who shot the arrow? Was it one of theirs? Was someone missing from the townspeople?

The dwarf's spasms began to slow down but still no one moved.

The townspeople all ducked as a something streaked over their heads. An arrow appeared, quivering, in the tree branch that the rope was slung over. The dwarf fell to the ground with a thump and the crowd realized that someone had shot the rope, pierced it with the arrowhead, saving the dwarf. But the dwarf was not moving.

Harry Bandle pushed from the back of the crowd to the prostrate dwarf and loosened the noose around his neck. Still the dwarf did not move. Harry placed his hands on the dwarf's chest and began to press rhythmically. After a dozen pushed the dwarf coughed into his gag. Harry pulled the gag off the dwarf's face then pulled a kitchen knife from his belt and cut the ropes that bound the dwarf's hands and feet. The dwarf sat up and coughed up blood.

The crowd of townspeople began to drift away. Some went back to their homes to pack. They had decided on the spot that the problems they could face leaving the town were nothing compared to the problems they would face when the Lord Baltrog came back and found his new man dead and the murderer of his old man alive. Others went back to their homes to pray to their gods. Still others went home to find what they could sell. They knew they would not be able to leave the town, but they hoped if they could find the tax money they would not die too soon. One old man went home to kill himself. He had seen a lifetime of troubles and knew when more were coming.

In a matter of minutes, the dwarf and Harry were alone in the square.

The dwarf coughed up more blood.

Harry, hunkered down beside the dwarf, thumped him on the back.

"Ahem," said a voice. The men looked up to see a woman, dressed in green leathers, standing in front of them. She was tall and slender. She held a complicated long bow in her hand. A quiver of arrows peeked over shoulder. At first the men were not certain she was real, because she had appeared so silently, but the dwarf recognized her as the woman who had shared his breakfast.

She pointed at the tree branch that the rope had been slung over. "I want my arrow back," she said.

Chapter Seven

Harry Bandell, Voltag Grimm, and Yolanthe Nailo sat in Harry's deserted tavern. No one spoke, though the dwarf coughed occasionally and rubbed his neck. He avoided looking at the other two. His axe, reclaimed from the body of bugbear, leaned against the bar. Harry stared at his hands, folded on the table, and Yolanthe glanced between the man and the dwarf.

The room still smelled of the orc's blood that had been spilled there two nights before.

"I've lived here all my life," said Harry. "I was born here, in the room above this tavern. My great-grandfather built this tavern with his own hands. I've never been farther east on the road than the crest, and never farther west than the bridge. It was all I ever needed."

He paused, looked up at the dwarf and the woman, then back at his hands. "This was a happy town. We all knew each other. We helped each other. We raised barns and sheds together. We celebrated together.

"It wasn't perfect. There were feuds. Teenagers caused trouble. Unwanted children were born in back rooms and maybe a few of them were never allowed to draw a first breath. But it was a good place. Most of us were content most of the time, and that's a great deal in this world.

"Six years ago the raids began. Orcs, goblins, other creatures, came down out of the mountains or simply rode into town. They stole. They beat those who resisted. They set fires. Some of the women were taken away. We couldn't fight them. We're not warriors. The few who stood up to them died. A few died slowly."

He looked up at the ceiling. "A year later Baltrog rode into town with a few followers," he said. "He said that he had heard of our troubles, and as an inhabitant of the range he was shocked and disturbed by these outrages. He promised to end the raids. All he asked in return was a small annuity and some say in local affairs. That's what he said. So the town council accepted. And sure enough, the raids ended. Baltrog even brought some of the creatures who had raided us into town in chains. He recovered some of the stolen goods. He was our hero. Our savior.

"But the cure can be worse than the disease. Baltrog works through magic and force. He is a powerful sorcerer. His helpers are the same sort of scum who raided our town. His 'annuity' quickly became a crippling tax, and he disbanded the town council and imposed a martial law enforced by his 'sheriff.'

"And now the tax beggars us, and we are ruled by monsters. Baltrog uses spies and magic to watch us so we all fear each other. We don't celebrate together anymore, and we don't help each other. We sit in our houses hoping the sheriff won't knock on the door and demand a meal or a daughter. The only place we gather is here." His hand swept the empty tavern, dingy in the morning light. "And we talk of nothing. Of the weather. Of crops and hunting. Of the glory of the Lord Baltrog. That man even drank the Yollithian wine I was saving for my brother."

Finally he looked at the dwarf, who looked down to avoid his gaze. "Then you came," he said. "And you killed Yorg." He looked at Yolanthe. "And you killed the new sheriff." He looked back at his hands. "And I helped the dwarf breathe again. And because of these acts, I am a dead man."

Harry sat silently, grimacing at his hands. He formed them into fists and slammed them down on the table. "But these were the right things to do!" He shouted. He swallowed hard and lowered his voice. "And I would not have them undone."

They sat in silence. The dwarf squirmed in his seat. He worked his mouth, as if trying to spit out something bitter. Finally he spoke, quietly, avoiding Harry's eye.

"My name is Voltag Grimm," he said. "My father is Tolmann Grimm, thane of the Grimm Mountain clan. My younger brother is Rolf Grimm." He paused, reluctant to speak. "I thank you for your help. I am sorry for the troubles." He brought his gaze up to meet Harry's. "Voltag Grimm is in your debt. You need never fear for your life. I give my word."

Harry stared back. "How can you promise that?" He asked. "Will you live here? Will you be my bodyguard? Will you fight Baltrog and all his men?" He looked around the tavern. "I must leave Oakborder," he said. "I have to hide. For the rest of my life."

The dwarf fumbled with something in his belt and came up with a leather purse. He tossed in on the table in front of Harry. "That will help," he said. "I will protect you until you're settled."

Harry picked up the purse. The weight of it surprised him. He opened the drawstring and peeked in. His mouth fell open.

"There must be four hundred gold pieces in here," he said.

The dwarf made a dismissive gesture.

"I had always heard," said Yolanthe, "That dwarves hoarded their wealth."

"You heard wrong," said Grimm. "And you, why did _you_ help me?"

"I owed you," she said. "When I had breakfast with you the other day, and told you about the bard in this tavern, that wasn't me."

Voltag glared in confusion.

"It _was_ me, my body," she continued, "But those were not my words. That was not _me_ in my body."

Voltag beetled his brows and growled, "You lied to me. The elf was never here."

" _I_ didn't lie to you," said Yolanthe. "Baltrog did."

She sighed. "Let me explain," she said. "I lived in the forest of Naibultin, hundreds of miles north of here, on the east slope of the mountain range. Thirty years ago, my father was killed."

"Thirty years!" The dwarf grunted. His brows contracted in suspicion. "Take off your hat," he said.

Yolanthe pulled off her soft leather cap revealing the points of her ears. Voltag jumped up, knocking over his stool.

"You're an elf!" He shouted. "A lying elf!"

"Half elf," said Yolanthe quietly. "The half elf that saved your life."

Voltag grunted.

"My mother was human," continued Yolanthe. "She died when I was a baby. Please sit down."

Voltag reluctantly righted his stool and set it farther away from Yolanthe. He sat down with ill grace.

"I don't remember her," Yolanthe said, "But my father tells me she was beautiful. My father raised me on a small lake, in the Pineshadow valley. We lived trapping and hunting. He raised me in knowledge of the woods and taught me the languages of the trees and mountains. He taught me the way of the bow, and how to craft my own weapons. We came to town perhaps four times a year, for supplies, for the odd piece of news, but otherwise we lived alone and free. My father said he needed no other company since my mother died.

"I was very happy.

"One day my father went to check the traps, and he did not return. I waited three days, then I followed our trap line. I tracked his movements. He had followed the line until the farthest point from our camp, but then, instead of following the line back, his tracks led deeper into the forest. I followed them. His prints showed that he had started to run, towards something or away from something, I could not tell. After many miles the tracks crossed a path, one of the paths that leads from the road to a waterfall where young people sometimes came to play.

"There had been a fight on the trail. My father had been attacked, and he had fought. There was the blood of several creatures sprayed on the leaves. I saw footprints of orcs, beasts, and men. But my father's footprints stopped there.

"I spent two days widening my search from that point, but could find no trail. So I went back to our cabin. Baltrog was there waiting for me.

"He told me he had come to speak to my father. That they were old friends. He seemed genuinely worried when I told him of my father's disappearance and he promised to organize a search party. In the meantime he invited me back to castle, to be his ward. I had no desire to leave the woods, to live in a great stone box, but I said yes, and packed my things and followed him.

"I know now that he controlled my mind, put thoughts in my head and words in my mouth, so that I obeyed him even as my will rebelled.

"At first we lived in a castle on the east side of the mountains, in the town of Luganton."

Yolanthe paused. She remembered her first sight of the castle. It had only been a mile from the edge of the forest that covered the mountain range, but the trees that led to the edge of the plain had all been cut down. Their stumps still stood as mute testimony to a way of life she could not understand. Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone cut down a tree? Denude a forest for a better view? It had made no sense.

Life in the castle was just as odd. Baltrog had assigned her a small but pleasant room in one of the towers, but she became so claustrophobic on the first night ran from the castle and found refuge in the barn, sleeping in the hay in the loft over the horse stall. When Baltrog found out he indulged her and so she had slept there every night, and every morning she had run the mile to the forest to smell its air and commune with its trees.

"When he found out my skill with the bow, he arranged to have a master archer come give me lessons. I trained six, seven hours a day. And I hunted, and practiced my forest skills. Baltrog was supportive of my training. And once a week he told me that his men had yet to find my father, but that they were still looking.

"I missed my father, but it was not a bad life. Not the life of the forest, but as good a life as a person can have in a stone box."

Yolanthe paused. "I thought he was a good man," she said.

Harry grunted. "You were fooled. Like all of us," he said.

"It was almost two years since I had arrived at Baltrog's castle," continued Yolanthe, "That he told me to pack for a short trip. He told me to bring my bow and arrows. We spent three days riding to the city of Tzanasport."

She remembered the city, much bigger than Luganton. This was a walled metropolis, all stone buildings, smoke, and the clamor of a thousand voices. The streets had been filled with elves, dwarves, humans, half-orcs, gnomes, haflings, and people she could not place. The open-air market had sold goods she had never seen nor dreamed of and the air smelled of spices, excrement, and the crush of diverse races. Temples to strange gods belched forth incense and chants. She had seen a man lying in the street, perhaps dead, while passers-by stepped over him as though he were not there.

She was terrified.

Baltrog brought her to an expensive inn where she was given her own room. She spent a sleepless night there, listening to the sounds of the city, while Baltrog went out on some unspecified business. She had finally fallen into a fitful sleep full of strange dreams just before dawn.

"Once we were there," she said, "He took over my mind for the first time."

It had happened in the morning. She was awake, as was her custom, at first light and was eating the strange food that the inn's servant had brought to her door. Her neck hurt and there were drops of blood on her pillow. Before she could investigate the source of the blood she had felt the room tilt and change colours. She had been terrified, but the sensation had not lasted long before she slipped into a dream-like state. She knew what she was doing, she could interpret her surroundings, but she had no will of her own. She felt as though her mind had fled her body and now watched her as she went through motions that were dictated by some outside source.

"I took my bow," she said, "And aimed out the window of the inn. I stood, at the ready, for hours, not in control of my self. And then, late in the morning, I heard a procession coming down the street towards the square that the window looked out on. The procession was in honour of the mayor of the city, an old man whom the city-folk seemed to love.

"He stood on a riser in the square to deliver a speech. The people cheered and clapped as he spoke.

"I killed him. A single arrow, through the throat, aimed to spin his body so that the flight of the arrow could not be backtracked.

"It caused a panic in the square. People screamed and ran. The man's guards did not see where the arrow came from and they panicked, running into the wrong buildings.

"But the important thing is that _I_ didn't kill him. It was my skill, yes, my bow and eye, but not my intent. Baltrog had taken over my mind and used the knowledge of my body to kill that man.

"A year later Tzanasport accepted the Baltrog as its protector and he moved his retinue there."

Harry sighed deeply. Voltag knitted his brows and glared at the floor.

"I didn't understand what had happed for more than a year," said Yolanthe. "But then it became clear. Baltrog used me as a tracker, as a spy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "As an assassin. He did so for the next five years. Every year there were more and more occurrences. Then, more than a year ago, I escaped. Or so I thought. But he had set another trap for me."

She looked at the dwarf. "And he used me to lure you to this town."

Voltag stared hard at her. "How do we know you're not controlled by him now?"

"After he left my mind," she said, "I went to my cabin, retrieved my good bow, and then tracked you here."

"Tracked me?" snorted the dwarf. "I cover my tracks where ever I travel, as stealthy as a fox. And I walked on a stone road. Tracked me indeed."

"You spent an hour at the campsite, staring at the fire," she said. "Then you packed and headed towards this town, sticking to the right side of the road, in the shade. Two miles outside the town you left the road to wash in a stream. You spent a lot of time on your hair and beard. You put on some sort of perfume and you carefully cleaned your teeth and nails."

The dwarf made a blustering noise and looked away, embarrassed.

"I came to make up for having led you here," Yolanthe said. "And I saved your life."

She did not tell him how she had picked up her ferret and carefully examined its squirming body until she had found a tattoo, hidden under the fur on its back near its tail. It had been in the shape of an eye surrounded by flame. She had considered killing the ferret, but instead had put it in one of her bark-skin buckets and left the cabin forever. The ferret would be able to chew its way out in a couple of hours, long after she was gone.

The dwarf grunted. "And how will we know when he takes control of you again?" he asked.

Yolanthe looked away. "I don't know," she said. "I know when it is going to happen. I have a few seconds notice, but I don't know if anyone else can tell."

"Well," said the dwarf, "I think I'll . . ."

Someone pounded on the tavern door. Voltag jumped up and grabbed his axe. By the time he was on his feet Yolanthe had already drawn her bow and nocked an arrow pointing it at the door. Harry sat frozen with fear.

"Company," said Voltag.

The pounding came again, more insistent.

"We're closed!" shouted Harry.

"Harry!" came a low, rich voice through the door. "It's Tom Irontone. I'm here with the town elders. We need to speak to you."

Harry stood up and began to walk to the door, but the dwarf pointed at the ground, a sign that he should stay still. He gestured for Yolanthe to follow him and he crossed to the door. His axe in his right hand, Voltag used the fingers on his mutilated left hand to count down from three. At the end of the count he flung open the door and stood in the frame, his axe at the ready. Yolanthe stood behind him, aiming over his head at whatever might be outside.

The blacksmith stepped back in surprise, bumping into the twenty or so village elders that stood behind him. Voltag scanned the crowd and the buildings behind them. Seeing nothing suspicious, he said, "What do you want?"

"To talk," said the blacksmith. "Just to talk to Harry."

Harry came up behind Yolanthe and put his hand on her shoulder. She lowered her bow and stepped to the side. He stood behind the dwarf, easily looking over his head. The dwarf did not move, blocking access to the door.

"What is it, Tom?" Harry asked the blacksmith.

The big man blushed and stammered. "We've been talking, Harry," he said. "And we think, well, we think you should leave the town."

"Leave," said Harry.

"You understand, Harry," said the blacksmith. "It's not you. It's the trouble that will come. The new sheriff is dead, because of the woman. And the dwarf is alive, because of you."

The dwarf growled.

"When the Lord Baltrog returns," Tom continued, "He'll punish us terribly if you and these people are here."

"And what will he do when he finds out you let us escape?" asked Voltag.

The blacksmith had no answer, so he turned to the crowd behind him, but they just muttered and lowered their eyes.

"Or are you thinking of holding me here?" Voltag asked more loudly. "Are you?"

Now even the blacksmith could not look up.

"I thought not," said the dwarf.

"What are we to do?" cried an old woman from the back of the crowd. The crowd shuffled but no one answered.

"The problem is not me," said the dwarf. "It's not the woman. And it isn't Harry, who is more man than all of you put together. The problem is this Bald-dog. He has turned you against each other. He has broken clan and family."

"And what can we do about it?" asked the same old woman. "He has magic and creatures. We're just poor townspeople."

Other elders joined their voices in support of the old woman's sentiments. "Yes," they muttered. "He'll kill us all."

They fell silent under the dwarf's glare.

The dwarf beetled his brows and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "I'm going now," he said, and stepped out of the doorway. "If this man is hurt while I'm away, the entire town will know the wrath of Voltag Grimm."

He swung his axe onto his shoulder, a movement that caused a few of the elders to leap backwards. Then he began walking downhill, back towards the square. The crowd parted hastily to let him pass.

"Where are you going?" cried out Harry after him.

The dwarf did not bother to look back. "To kill Baltrog," he said, and kept walking.

Chapter Eight

The screaming had been going on for three hours. Everyone on the lower floors of the castle was sick of it. They were used to screams, certainly, even used to some screaming sessions lasting twenty minutes or more. But _three hours!_ It got on one's nerves. Everyone who could found work outside or on the upper floors of the castle where the sound did not reach, but some servants and creatures were assigned posts they could not leave. A few resorted to shoving small twists of cloth into their ears in an attempt to block out the grating sound.

But not the gnome. For him, the screams were music, and the longer they went on, the sweeter the music seemed. For the screams were being produced by a prisoner being tortured on a device of the gnome's own fashioning, an ingenious combination of rack and iron maiden. It even contained special troughs to collect the bodily fluids of the victim and neatly siphon them into glass jars. The head torturer had not wanted to use the device, calling it newfangled and overly complicated, but the Lord Baltrog had taken the gnome's side and insisted that the machine be tried on the next torture victim. And here it was, three hours later, and the victim was still alive and suffering. The head torturer had never accomplished that duration of pain in a prisoner with his hot irons, clamps, or whips.

The gnome chuckled as the howling reached a new crescendo. Yes, he thought, a good machine. I'll have to build another.

Reluctantly he made his way up the stairs to the main level of the castle where the screams were barely audible. He carried his scrolls in a leather bucket and his writing material in a small sack. It was almost dinnertime and the Lord Baltrog liked to go over the books before he ate.

The gnome raised his hand to knock on the door to Baltrog's library, but before his hand descended a voice came from within. "Come," it said.

The gnome pushed open the great door and entered the room. It was two stories high, the second story being comprised of a balcony that ran around the wall and allowed access to the second level of bookshelves that covered the walls. The shelves were filled with books, but also scrolls, maps, jars of unidentifiably substances, stuffed animals, curious carved figures, religious icons, alchemical equipment, and arcane weapons. In the center of the room was a vast table covered with just as many things as well as heaps of paper, account books, and magical devices including a crystal ball. The gnome did not like the clutter and mess of the room, but he had not been allowed to clean it the way he did the rest of the fort.

The Lord Baltrog, dressed in his robes of power, was toiling over an ancient manuscript set on a stand on that table. His reading light was a crystal bottle filled with a green gas that cast a bright light. It sat on a tripod in the middle of the great table.

"Grimestoke," said Baltrog, not looking up, "Sounds like your machine is a winner."

The gnome bowed, acknowledging the compliment. "I'm glad if it pleases you," he said.

"Hmm," said Baltrog. "Any news?"

Grimestoke pulled some papers from his bucket and spread them on a clear space on the table. "The accounts are looking good in our original towns," he said. "Taxes being paid on time. No dissent. We may find ourselves a bit overstretched when we get the last two towns on the road, but I'm sure we can compensate."

"What about that place in the mountains, where we caught the dwarf?" asked Baltrog, still reading his book.

"Oakborder," said the gnome. "No new is good news. On the other hand, that bugbear we left there is not exactly going to be sending detailed reports. Might be worth a look-see. It's been a week."

Baltrog sighed and closed his book. "Really?" he asked.

"Your decision," said the gnome.

"Oh, all right," said Baltrog. "Then dinner."

"Roasted peacock."

"Yum," said Baltrog

He walked over to a small stone shard set in an elaborate stand at the far end of the table. He put his right hand on it and held his left in the air.

"Who is it in Oakborder?" he asked as he closed his eyes.

"The blacksmith," said the gnome.

###

Tom Irontone sat at his dinner table trying to light his pipe as his wife cleared the dishes and his two daughters worked on their lessons in front of the fire. He was worrying over the events of the past week, trying to find a way to excuse the village from the Lord Baltrog's wrath and trying to imagine where he could find his share of the taxes without ruining his family's life. It all came back to Harry Bandle, he decided. If worse came to worse the town would have to hand Harry over to Baltrog. It would be a terrible thing to do to a friend, but Harry had brought this trouble on himself and he would have to be sacrificed for the greater good.

Tom's wife Goodrun, a woman as small and delicate as he was large and burly, sensed his worry and tried to move as quietly as possible. She knew her husband was upset but she also knew that they were in better financial straights than a lot of people in the village, and if they cut a few corners they would be able to weather their share of the new tax. But the big blacksmith was a worrier. All she could do was try to make life easier for him.

She wiped the last of the dishes and decided she would use the last of the fruit preserves to bake something special for dessert. Her husband had a sweet tooth.

One of the girls looked up from her writing lesson at her father. He was sitting stock-still, staring at the wall but not blinking. His pipe had gone cold in his hand.

"Daddy's having one of his spells again," she said, and turned back to her work.

Goodrun put down the dishes and crossed over to her husband. About six years ago he had begun to have these moments when he would seem to freeze, to lose consciousness, in the middle of a sentence of even an action. It always happened in the evening, sometimes in bed. It never lasted long and when he came to he was no worse for the experience. Indeed, the first few times it had happened he had refused to believe his wife's description of his state. Only when she let him sit with a fire stick burning in his hand during a spell had he come to realize she was telling the truth. His children soon came to accept the spells as part of their father's personality.

She waved her hand in front of his open eyes. He continued to stare into the distance, not blinking. After the first few times it had happened she had gone to the town healer, Doctor Halsontell, and he had assured her that it was a common ailment. Many famous people had suffered from such spells and went on to live long productive lives. Had anything unusual happened to Tom that might have sparked the sessions? She could think of nothing except the time he came home drunk, something he never did, and bearing a tattoo on his shoulder that he claimed he couldn't remember getting. But that had been an isolated incident. The doctor told her just to be sure that he was never left alone in the evenings especially around a fire.

Tom blinked and looked at Goodrun.

"Something smells good," he said.

###

Baltrog took his hand off the stone and opened his eyes. The gnome looked up at him curiously.

"You're not going to believe this," Baltrog said. "But we've got some work to do before dinner."

Chapter Nine

The dwarf was surprised she took so long. He was expecting her the first night, but she did not show herself until the morning after he left the village, and even then she did not approach his breakfast fire. Instead she sat on the low branch of a tree, not moving. The dwarf had to admit that had he not been on the look out for her, he probably would not have noticed her there. She sat so still she seemed part of the scenery.

He thought about ignoring her but decided that would be merely postponing the inevitable. Instead he plucked the feathers off the duck he had caught the other day, gutted it, and speared it on a stick over his fire. Once the fat began to sizzle he said loud enough for her to hear, but without looking at her, "You can have a bit of meat, but I eat in silence."

After a minute she climbed down from the tree and squatted on the ground across the fire from the dwarf.

Voltag poked at the duck. "I don't know why you've come," he said. "The only way I can repay you is to kill Baltrog. It would be better if you weren't around when it happened."

"He ruined my life," she said. "I'm sure he killed my father."

"More reason for me to kill him," said the dwarf.

"You don't know where he lives," she said. "You don't know his fortress. I do."

The dwarf pulled a piece of meat of the duck with his fingers, tasted it, and shook his head. "Not done," he said.

He looked up at her. "This Lord, this Ball-rock, he controls your mind."

"Sometimes," she said.

"Sometimes," he repeated. "One time is enough. Through you, he could see me coming. Or he could use you to lead me the wrong way. Like before."

She was silent for a second. "I know when it's going to happen," she said. "I could warn you. I'll shout something. Like, 'he's here'."

The dwarf grunted. "'He's here?' Then what do I do? Kill you?"

Again she sat silently. "It might not come to that. I don't think he can control me unless he knows where I am. Unless he sees me or one of his minions sees me. I know he can look through the eyes of other people, and take over their minds more easily, but it seems harder for him to reach me. I don't know why. Perhaps it's my elvish blood."

"And who saw you in the woods?"

"A ferret."

The dwarf did not know if it was a joke or not, so he turned his attention back to the duck. "Done," he declared. He broke it in half and tossed part to Yolanthe. Knowing it was coming, she produced a dagger from inside her tunic and speared the bird carcass as it came at her.

"Last thing I'll say," said the dwarf. "If he takes you over and you try to kill me, I'll defend myself. Do we understand each other?"

"We do," she said.

They ate their meal in silence.

###

They heard the water before they saw it. They had been walking downhill for four hours. Steep, wooded slopes framed the road, but it seemed less claustrophobic because the mountain peaks were less high. Sunlight sometimes penetrated to the path.

Finally they emerged into a broad valley. The road winded through a mile-long meadow of grass and wild flowers. They could see it stretched downwards in front of them and towards a bridge that spanned a river.

"After the bridge it's a day to Baltrog's personal lands," said Yolanthe. "Another day to his castle in Tzanasport. We have to be careful now. We're in his territory."

"Humph," said Voltag. "The sooner the better."

He began to stride down the road towards the bridge. Yolanthe followed a few steps behind, scanning the landscape. Wide-open spaces made her uncomfortable and there was something odd about this meadow. While she had been here before, travelling with Baltrog, she had never noticed anything strange about it, but now it made her hackles rise.

They were about a hundred feet into the meadow when Yolanthe realized what the problem was. The meadow was bigger than it had been the last time she had seen it. That did not make sense. Forests tended to overtake meadows, filling them in, unless the soil conditions did not allow for heavy tree growth. But this meadow was larger. And more regular. The tree line was almost perfectly ovoid with one end of the oval ending at the bridge and the other starting where she now stood.

"Stop," she said.

The dwarf pulled his axe over his head. He slipped into a fighting stance as he reeled around to face her.

"Is he here?" he asked in a fierce whisper.

"No," she said. "But something else is."

She held up her finger for him to be silent as she focused her senses. She studied the tree line and realized it had been cut back recently. Also the meadow vegetation was inconsistent. Small irregular patches of raw earth marred the expanse of grass and wild flower.

She could see small fauna: three squirrels, seven field mice, an owl on a distant tree, a pair of swallows darting over the meadow, dragonflies, bees.

She bent down and picked up a pinch of the soil at the side of the road. She rubbed it between her fingers. It was too loose. She tasted a fleck of it. It tasted of calcium and copper, but was rich enough to support trees. She stood up and breathed deeply. She could smell that soil had been turned here recently. Almost certainly the patches of raw earth were the result of recent excavations.

"Hold your breath," she said.

The dwarf took a deep breath and held it.

She focused her hearing. At first there was nothing but the sounds of insects, birds, rushing water, and small animals in the grass. But then she heard something that did not fit: the sound of digging. Many things digging. But it was not normal digging. This was the sound of things digging _upwards_ .

A cleared field.

Raw patches of earth.

Things digging up from the earth.

"Run," she said.

Voltag and Yolanthe started to run towards the bridge. It was almost half a mile away.

The first movement came from the patches of raw earth. Claws, some covered with decaying flesh, began to thrust out of the patches and then scrabble to pull their owners out of shallow graves. Other parts of the meadow, covered with grass, began to bubble and shift as undead creatures buried beneath began to climb out. The claws that thrust out of these overgrown parts of the field were older – all bone and gristle, the flesh having long rotted away.

Yolanthe was almost a third of the way to the bridge when the first complete bodies pulled themselves out of the bare patches and into standing positions. They were too small to be human, too slight to be dwarves, and their heads were long and dog-like.

Kobolds, thought Yolanthe. This is a burial ground for a tribe of kobolds that lives in these forests. And something is animating these corpses. Some _one_.

Voltag could not run as fast as Yolanthe. While she had covered a third of the distance towards the bridge, he lagged 100 feet behind, running as fast as he could. He could see that it would be hopeless. Even Yolanthe, with her speed, would not make it to the bridge before the corpses and skeletons overwhelmed them. The complete corpses were already stumbling towards the road and many of them were in front of the half-elf and dwarf. The skeletons and more decomposed bodies were not far behind. The entire surface of the meadow was churning with undead kobolds forcing their way to the surface. So much ground had been broken by the creatures that it looked like it have been newly plowed.

While running, Voltag calculated. There were at least two hundred, maybe more, of the creatures, but they were clumsy, slow, and mindless. They could only win by overwhelming Yolanthe and him with their numbers, making it impossible for them to move and eventually clawing and biting them to death. The trick would be to keep a space around themselves into which the monsters could not enter. That was something he could do expertly with his axe, as long as he did not fall, but he could not imagine how Yolanthe could accomplish it with her bow. Stupid weapon, he thought. But maybe he could give her his dagger.

Yolanthe stopped running. Her way was blocked by seven corpses, the first two of which must have been very recently buried for they moved in a demonic parody of the quick, jerky movements of live kobold and their flesh, though dirty and green, was almost intact. Yolanthe pulled her bow into firing position and in a blur of motion put an arrow into each of the seven monsters.

It had no effect on them.

Stupid elf, thought Voltag, as he puffed up behind her. An arrow is not going to hurt something that is dead. Undead creatures have to be dismembered, crushed, or . . .

Yolanthe cried out a strange word in a language the dwarf did not understand. The arrows stuck in the undead kobolds all burst into flame. The undead kobolds twisted and fell as their insides burned.

Humph, thought Voltag. Seven down, 193 to go. Then he noticed that the less mobile monsters that stumbled behind the seven Yolanthe had just downed moved mindlessly into the flaming bodies of their fallen comrades. They tripped and fell onto the burning bodies, some of them in turn catching on fire.

The dwarf was some twenty feet from Yolanthe's position when she sent out another volley. Standing in one place and spinning, she sent 21 arrows into the front line of the crowd of monsters that was converging on them. As she spun and shot she shouted "freeze!" at Voltag. He did so and felt an arrow pass within an inch of his head. He heard it slam into a body behind him.

Once more Yolanthe cried the strange word and the arrows, all of which had hit the undead kobolds in their mid-sections, burst into flame. The burning monsters collapsed and fell, and the undead creatures behind them became tangled on the flaming corpses and caught fire themselves.

Voltag reached Yolanthe, panting. They stood back to back and surveyed their position. They were a half-mile from the bridge. They stood on the road, in the middle of a circle 60 feet across that was defined by the burning corpses of the kobolds. At least 150 more undead were moving towards them outside the circle. Some were still tripping on their flaming companions, but it was clear that in a few minutes most of the flames would be out and the monsters would be able to crawl over the pile towards them.

The dwarf and half-elf, still back to back, turned slowly in spot so that they both could assess the entire scene.

"Any more arrows?" asked the dwarf without taking his eye off the monsters.

"No," said Yolanthe.

"Any more magic?"

"None that would help."

The dwarf thought for a moment. "Can you fly?" he asked.

"No," she snorted. "Can you?"

Voltag ignored the sarcasm. He knew he could create a maelstrom of violence with his axe that would dismember, even disintegrate, any undead creature that stumbled into it. He might even be able to keep it up until all these creatures had been destroyed. But how could he do it with another person within that circle of sweeping metal? She could not stand near him since the swings of the axe would be 360 degrees around his body. He could not put her on his shoulders for that would restrict his arms and she would not be able to crouch under his swing as he was too low to the ground. The axe-master had taught him how to fight with other axe-wielding dwarves, side-by-side, but spaced so that the killing circle of one fighter was just close enough to the next to allow nothing to pass between them. A dozen such fighters created an impenetrable wall of death over hundred feet long. But the system was predicated on the fact that nothing or no one could stand within the sweep of the individual dwarf's axe.

The flames in the burning bodies were being snuffed out by the undead that fell upon them.

"Here!" shouted the dwarf. He stepped off the cobblestone road onto the earth. "Throw your pack beside mine!"

Voltag threw his backpack some three feet from the edge of the road. Yolanthe threw hers beside his.

"Let me know when they get through," he ordered. And then he swung his axe into the earth between the road and the packs.

Yolanthe did not bother to ask him what he was doing. Instead she stepped back on the road and scanned the perimeter of the circle defined by the bodies. Most of the fires were out and the skeletons and corpses were beginning to tumble over the wall the bodies had made.

"Maybe five minutes," she said.

The dwarf grunted and kept working. He was using his axe as a shovel, digging a shallow trench parallel to the road. He threw the earth he dug up on top of the packs. Soon they were almost buried.

Yolanthe kept scanning. She sensed that the first monsters would make it over the barrier immediately in front of where Voltag was digging. As she watched one shambling corpse almost made it over the bodies before it got tangled and fell.

"Two minutes," she said.

Grunting with exertion the dwarf flung more earth on top of the packs. They now formed a low mound on the other side of the trench from the road. The trench was almost six feet long.

One of the walking corpses tumbled over the wall and began to get to its feet inside the circle.

"One minute," said Yolanthe.

"Right! Into the hole!" shouted the dwarf.

"Face up?" she asked.

"It don't matter. Get in!" shouted Voltag.

Yolanthe lay down in the trench, face up. Immediately Voltag dragged some dirt on top of her body with the axe. In a second she was covered except for her face.

The corpse that had made it over the barrier was lurching towards Voltag.

"Don't sit up until I tell you," said Voltag as he stepped back onto the road.

The first corpse was now just on the other side of the mound created by the packs. Sensing an object in its way, it stepped to the side and continued towards Voltag. Its new path would take it around the trench in which Yolanthe was lying.

Voltag began to swing his axe in one-handed figure eights.

"I care not whether I live!" he shouted at the monster. "But I have debts to pay before I die. So taste my axe!"

He increased the speed of the axe and began to pass it from hand to hand. It started to whistle as it cut through the air.

The animated corpse lurched towards the dwarf, its claws extended. Voltag's axe swept through its torso, cleaving it in two without slowing. The body fell in neat halves beside Yolanthe's head.

The dwarf kept the axe moving in slow patterns. Using its momentum to twist his own body, he moved through the three-step pattern that he had learned so well 60 years ago. A combination of steps, turns, and passes of the swinging axe from hand to hand, it allowed the axe wielder to scan 360 degrees while remaining at the center of the axe's circle. Once sped up, the same pattern became a defense against attackers on all sides. Slaughter, the old axe-master, had a word for the movement.

"It's a dance, lads!" he would shout. "It's rhythmic motion, a beautiful duet for dwarf and axe." And during practice he would pound out a rhythm on a great drum, a drum which the students whispered was made from the hide of a monstrous orc that Slaughter had strangled with his bare hands decades ago. And he would shout out the steps,"Swing! Step! Shift! Pass! Shift! Step! Swing!" while beating an ever increasing tempo on the drum. The first dwarf who lost a step or, Moradin help him, dropped his axe, would pay with the public humiliation and pain of standing in the practice hall with his axe held above his head for an hour. Some students fainted from the pain in their shoulders.

Voltag studied the enemy as he turned. Corpses had climbed over their fallen comrades on all sides and were stumbling towards him, arms outstretched. The mound made by the backpacks would force the ones coming from that direction to step to the side and by-pass Yolanthe's head. As long as he made sure her face was under the circuit of his axe, she should be safe. There is no animate thing stupider than a skeleton nor more focused in its goal. It sought to kill the living, which to it meant heat and movement. The dwarf would be providing a great deal of both. There was a chance the creatures would not even know where the half-elf was there.

It worked to his advantage that the undead were once kobolds. They were small and slight. He would be able to cleave through any part of their carcasses without impeding the swing of his axe. The outcome of the fight would come down to his own duration and dexterity. As long as he could keep up the speed of his defensive swinging, as long as he did not trip or let the axe slip as he transferred it from one hand to another, he stood a chance.

The advancing circle of monsters was now ten feet away on every side. He brought the swing of the axe back up to speed and synchronized it to his footwork. In seconds he was a spinning blur of flesh and steel. The whistle of the axe carried across the meadow. Voltag cleared his mind of thought.

He became the dance.

The axe smashed through two corpses' mid-sections, cleaving them in two, then swung through the neck of the next. The circuit continued and the axe swept through a corpse that was so old the bones literally exploded into dust as the axe tore through them.

Two more undead pressed in around him. Cleaved and shattered, they fell into pieces on top of their comrades.

Now they came in a great press.

Voltag did not think of their numbers, tried not to think at all. The only thing that counted was the dance. As the skeletons and corpses pushed in towards him they stepped into the circle of the axe and were split and chopped. Bones flew in the air, noxious gases billowed from split, rotting guts, and black fluids sprayed from severed necks.

As the pieces of the bodies fell, they began to form a low mound in a perfect circle around the dwarf. The succeeding waves of monsters stepped up on this pile, were cut down, and added to it. Voltag twisted and spun in the center of a growing mound of carnage.

Still more creatures crawled and stumbled towards Voltag. These were the less ambulatory undead: skeletons that were so old they were missing tendons and ligaments, corpses that had serious structural damage such as missing limbs. They exploded in bursts of bone dust and tatters of dried flesh. Rags and mats of hair flew in the air and rained down on the dwarf or were scattered by the vortex of wind created by his ever-moving axe.

Voltag spun and twisted for a full minute before he realized that something had changed in the rhythm of his dance. At first he did not pause to consider what it might be, his mind was so blank. He had surrendered his consciousness to the movement of axe. But slowly consciousness crept back and he formed a real thought: the axe was not hitting anything. It was whistling, unimpeded, through the air.

He slowed the dance down so that he could survey his enemy.

Nothing moved. Voltag, slowly spinning around, found himself in the middle of a circle some ten feet across. Everything outside the circle was a bone or body part. Pieces of skeleton and corpse had been scattered by the force of the axe twenty feet in every direction beyond the empty circle. There were no more undead shambling towards the circle.

It was over.

He slowed the axe to a stop.

His hands ached, sweat coursed down his face. He touched the blade of his axe and found it was hot from the friction of passing through so many bodies. He had done it. He had defeated an army of undead. Himself, alone.

Alone?

Voltag scrambled to the side of the road. The heaps of bones and body parts covered the place where Yolanthe was buried. Voltag realized he must have drifted away from her position as he fought. Her face was under a foot-high scattering of corpses.

Voltag dropped the axe and began digging through the body parts with his bare hands, chucking bones, limbs, and blackened organs over his shoulder in his hurry. A minute of scrambling and he found Yolanthe's face. Her eyes were tightly shut, her breath shallow. With what delicacy he was capable of, the dwarf brushed the bone dust and corruption off the half-elf's face.

"Don't die on me yet," he said as be began to dig at the earth that was piled on her chest. In a minute he had it off her and he helped her sit up.

She shook pieces of bone and clods of earth from her hair. "I'm going to be sick," she said. And was.

###

A short time later they sat on the road just below the circle of undead.

"What is this place?" asked Voltag.

"A kolbold cemetery," said Yolanthe. "Tribes of them live in these hills. Baltrog animated the corpses."

"How did he know we were here?" asked Voltag. "Through you?"

"No," said Volante. She stood up.

"What now? Are you going to . . ."

Before the dwarf could finish the question, Yolanthe held up a finger for silence. But she was not listening; she was thinking. Trying to picture the meadow just as it was the moment before the undead began to dig their way out of their shallow earth graves.

She strode back to the circle of undead bodies and began to look amongst the corpses and body parts.

"What is it?" whispered the dwarf.

"I need my arrows," she said.

"Arrows?" asked Voltag, confused. "But they were burned . . ."

Yolanthe pulled an arrow from the chest of a corpse. It was intact and unburned.

"Magic," grunted Voltag.

"Yes," she said. "Very handy magic."

She bent to pull another arrow from a corpse.

"What I don't understand," said the dwarf, "Is how Lord Ball-tag was able to . . ."

Before he could finish the sentence, Yolanthe cocked the arrow she had just pulled from the undead carcass, wheeled and fired it at the top of the nearby tree line.

As soon as the arrow left her bow she felt the world tilt and change colors. "He's . . ." she managed to gasp before her arrow slammed into the breastbone of the owl that was sitting on the top branch of an oak tree just at the border of the meadow. As the owl died the hallucination passed and Yolanthe found herself doubled over. The dwarf had drawn his axe and was throwing his glance between her and the tree line.

"Is it Ball-dog?" he shouted.

She held up her hand.

"No," she said. "Almost. But I stopped him."

The dwarf looked at her suspiciously. Seeing she was in distress, he pulled away, embarrassed, and walked over to the tree line. There he found the owl with the arrow stuck in its chest. He brought it back to the gasping half-elf and threw it at her feet.

"It's not lunch time," he said.

Calming her breathing, Yolanthe picked up the dead bird. She yanked the arrow from its chest and put it in her quiver. Then she began to stroke the bird, pushing her hand backwards against the lay of the feathers.

"It's dead," said Volag.

She kept stroking it, pushing back its feathers, until she found what she as looking for. She gestured the dwarf over.

"Look," she said.

Peering at the owl, Voltag could see what Yolanthe had discovered. There, on the bird's pale skin, hidden by feathers, was a tattoo in the shape of an eye surrounded by wavy lines that he took to represent water.

Yolanthe let the bird fall to the ground.

"That's the same shape I found on the ferret," she said. "It's some sort of mark that Baltrog puts on his creatures so he can see through their eyes."

"Hmm," said the dwarf. "Do you have one?"

"No," she said. Then, after a second, "I don't think so."

"Think so?" asked Voltag.

"Do you want to look?" she asked, staring at him in defiance.

He lowered his gaze and muttered into his beard, "No time. Got to move."

"Let me get the rest of my arrows," she said.

Chapter Ten

Grimestoke watched the Lord Baltrog enter the trance. Baltrog's left hand was on the stone, his right hand held in the air, his fingers contorted into an arcane sign. As he entered the trance his eyes rolled back until only the whites could be seen. His face, usually so calm, took on a worried appearance as his lips twisted into a grimace. He could stand in this position for hours.

The gnome had only a passing interest in magic. Certainly he appreciated Baltrog's extraordinary gifts but only for the results they produced. The actual processes, the techniques, the arcane knowledge that the practice entailed, well, that was all stuff and nonsense. Not like a good machine, a well-balanced ledger book, or even a meticulously ordered city. Now those were things that made sense, that had internal logic, that yielded quantifiable output from calibrated techniques. But magic, well, sometimes it worked and sometimes it fizzled.

Grimestoke was aware of the degrees of powers that Baltrog commanded. He understood that besides obvious spells the Lord had extraordinary psionic powers. But those powers were limited in ways that gnome could not comprehend. Some people and creatures Baltrog could control completely, taking over their minds and using their bodies as second selves. But to do that he had to have visual contact with the victim, either directly or through a surrogate. The surrogates themselves were a different type of link. Baltrog was able to see through the eyes and plumb the thoughts of certain people and creatures even over vast distances. But he could not make them do anything except observe and, perhaps, move to certain locations. What determined the difference in the two types of links Grimestoke did not know and had never cared to ask. None of his business, really.

No, his business was _real business_. Keeping the books, maintaining the maps, checking inventory, running Tzanasport. He was paymaster, factotum, and mayor, trusted advisor and henchman. It was a job he loved.

He had not always been so happy. Years ago – how many now? – he had been a social outcast in his village. While the other gnomes had gone about their business tinkering, inventing elaborate clocks, crafting jewelry, Grimestoke had shown an interest in less wholesome pastimes. He invented small machines that mangled fingers and he had set traps that broke ankles. The jewelry that he made was in shape of miniature skulls. He had shown an unhealthy interest in the slaughter of animals and was once caught preparing to dissect a neighbor's cat with a fiendishly sharp knife of his own creation. His village, tired of the trouble he brought, finally banished him and, truth be told, his exhausted parents had not argued against the decree.

On his own, he had turned to theft. There was no lock he could not pick, no trap he could not disable. Once he had established himself and taken a small neat cabin outside of Luganton, he was able to pursue his esoteric hobbies in private.

But then he had heard of the Lord Baltrog, a sorcerer who had purchased an empty castle on the edge of the town. He was reputed to be in possession of a sizable treasure. The temptation had been too much and he had set out to rob Baltrog even as he was moving into his new home. The job had gone very well. He had slipped by the guards, disabled an arrow trap, and had stolen an exquisite music box crafted of gold and precious stones. He had carried it home giggling with joy.

The Baltrog had been waiting for him inside his cabin.

"Congratulations," he had said. "You're the first one to make it."

Baltrog flicked a finger and Grimestoke found himself frozen in place, barely able to draw a breath. While he stood there Baltrog had gone through every corner of his cabin. He had found the gnome's special machines and sadistic traps; he found the ledger books he had kept of thefts (stupid, but who can resist such accounting?); he found the maps he had made of local treasure houses and castles. Baltrog even found the remains of one of the gnome's little animal experiments. This in particular seemed to interest him.

Eventually Baltrog was satisfied. He took a seat and snapped his fingers. The spell broke and Grimestoke fell to the floor.

"I have been looking for someone with your talents," said Baltrog. "I'm not a details person. I need an assistant. No, an _associate_."

Grimestoke climbed to his feet. "What does it pay?" he asked.

"Money?!" laughed Baltrog. "Oh there'll be all sorts of money. But I'm offering something much better than money."

He leaned forward in his chair. "Fun," he said.

That had been almost seven years ago and Baltrog had kept his word. Grimestoke spent his days having fun: the fun of building machines, of keeping meticulous records, of giving orders and making plans. It was everything a gnome of his inclinations could ask for and it just kept getting better as their little empire expanded.

The Lord Baltrog gave a cry of surprise and jumped backwards as though hit by an arrow in the chest. He fell on the ground.

Grimestoke ran over to him and helped him up to a sitting position. Baltrog, shaking his head, ran one hand over his chest as though he were looking for a wound. Finding nothing he turned to look at the worried gnome.

"Oh, she's being a very bad girl," he said. He grabbed the gnome by the collar and pulled his face close. "Find out everything you can about the dwarf."

Chapter Eleven

They travelled for six hours as fast as they could. Because Yolanthe was faster she ran ahead and took trips into the woods on the side of the road, reappearing beside Voltag every half hour or so. They were travelling downhill from the bridge and made good time.

They camped several miles downhill from the bridge in a small clearing that Yolanthe had found just out of sight of the road. They made a small fire and brewed a tea out of berries and wild herbs that Yolanthe found in the area. They sat sipping it as night began to fall. Then Voltag took the owl that Yolanthe had killed out of his pack. He began to clean it for cooking.

"You don't like the forests," she said.

Voltag stopped working for a moment. "No," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

"They're too crowded," he said after a minute, continuing to gut the bird. "Too confused. There is no order. Inside a mountain, surrounded by the living rock carved by ancestors, that is where anyone sane would choose to be. There even the sounds make sense. Every echo calls your name. You know what comes around every corner because every corner has been there for 600 years. You can feel the weight, the history of your people. You can touch it."

He paused to search for a word. "The _solidity_ of your clan is in the very walls and ceilings of your city. And everything is planned. You cannot rush a city carved from a mountain. Every hall and vault has a history, had its master carver and diggers. My great great great grandfather on my father's mother's father's side was the master digger of the hall of war in which I trained as a boy."

He found himself warming to the topic. "Do you know what it is to carve a chamber out of the living rock? The responsibility? The skill needed? Every swing of the hammer, every stroke of the chisel must be just right for if you break off the wrong piece, the room is ruined. And so we study, we apprentice. We take years practicing the craft of carving. No one knows the importance of patience and workmanship like the dwarves. We build for eternity."

He paused and looked around. "It is not like here," he said, gesturing at the countryside. "Under a fickle sun and a landscape that keeps shifting."

"And yet you wander far from your clan and caves," she said.

"Not my choice," he grunted.

"Don't you have family?" she asked.

"I do," he said. "They understand I must be away."

"Friends?"

"It takes a hundred years to make a true friend. I have not been travelling so long," he said, and began to pluck the feathers from the bird.

Yolanthe began to talk quietly. "I love the forest," she said. "I cannot imagine living anywhere else. Baltrog's castle, the cities he took me to, were prisons for me. In a city you cannot hear the trees or smell the mountains. The animals are caged or beaten and the plants rot in small jars on windowsills. Those windows that are supposed to give people a view are just holes in their cages, giving glimpses of other cages. Nowhere can you see far, and everything you see crowds the mind with useless detail. The air is filled with smoke and the stench of too many bodies.

"In the forest, you are part of life. Every breath you take, every step on the ground, every movement, is part of that life. The trees, plants, the animals, all fit into a pattern that you join, an infinitely complex dance of life. You can only here the music for that dance out here.

"The forest. That is where anyone sane would choose to be."

The dwarf gave her a grudging smile and said, "Let's cook the owl."

The next morning the Voltag was quiet over breakfast. When they finished eating he looked up from his meat and said, "I'll go on alone."

"What?" Yolanthe asked.

"We're almost dead because Bowl-frog saw you through an owl. How many other animal spies does he have between here and his castle? I can't watch every critter we pass. How could I? 'Oh no! The squirrel is looking at you. Better get ready for a swarm of killer slugs.' And the next time he sees you he may take over your mind. That would be a bad fight."

"If he takes me, I will warn you," she said.

"And if he conjures up an army of undead stone giants? What if he rains fire on us? Splits the earth beneath our feet? Even your arrows and my axe will not save us."

"If you travel without me, I will track you," she said. "You cannot cover your tracks so well that I cannot find them."

Voltag considered. It was true. He was no woodsman.

"Stubborn woman," he said. "Come if you must. Watch for squirrels."

They packed, climbed out of the woods back to the road, and began walking. After three hours the slope of the road leveled out. An hour after that the forest gave way to farmland.

Yolanthe smelled it first: the scent of burning. She stopped walking to and focused her sense of smell. It was a complex odor: burned wood, but also burned grass, leather, and meat. She could also make out the tang of heated metal, a smell universally associated with a forge.

Voltag noticed her concentration.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A fire," she said. "Straight ahead. Maybe two miles." She tried to remember the geography of her travels with Baltrog. "There's a town there. Small."

They did not speak for the next hour as they made their way along the road. At the one-mile mark Voltag could smell the fire too. A few minutes later they could see the smoke rising over a copse of trees.

Without exchanging a word, the dwarf and half-elf pulled out their weapons. Yolanthe cocked an arrow in her bow, but kept it pointed down. Voltag carried his axe one-handed, casually at his side.

Just before they emerged from the woods they passed a stone marker that read "Daleshire."

They passed through the stand of trees to find what looked like the remains of a huge bonfire. Certainly it did not look like a town. There were no buildings standing. Everything had been consumed by flame. The only signs that it had ever been a town were a few stone retaining walls that still stood and the odd blackened timber that still thrust into the air. Everything smoldered.

The pair walked slowly through the ashes of the town. In the charred remains of the villages they could see the fragments of inhabitants' possessions: pieces of plate, glass bottles that had melted in the heat, even the occasional gold coin.

Voltag stopped before the smoldering remains of a small hut. In the ashes and burned timber he could see not only gold and silver coins, but the blackened hand of child whose body was buried under the rubble.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"A bandit raid?" replied Yolanthe.

"Bandits would have taken the gold," said the dwarf. "This was something else. This was a slaughter."

He kicked a piece of wood that still flamed.

"Tell me about this place," he said.

"There isn't much to tell. It was a small town, really a village. Baltrog had taken it over some years ago. As far as I know, the villagers paid their taxes. There was never any problem. A lot of trade passed through here."

"What kind of trade?"

"Everything. This is the first town below the mountains. The two roads through the mountains converge here, so all trade destined for the rest of the peninsula passes through here. Unless it's coming by sea."

"And then?"

"There are only two ports on the peninsula. One is small, on the south side. That is Tzanasport, where Baltrog lives. The other is large, the city of Seatorn. It is at the very end of the Finger."

"Finger?"

"The Finger of Torn is the name given to the entire peninsula. Seatorn is the capital and the most important trade city on the north-west coast. We're in the narrowest part here. It gets much larger further west."

The dwarf chewed at his lower lip. He knew something about the importance of trade routes from his father. Tolman Grimm had always told him, "He who controls the roads, controls the money." Ships and the sea had meant nothing to the land-locked Grimm clan, so the few roads into and through the Grimm Mountains had been of dire concern for the old man. An elaborate and oft-strained treaty with the Needle Valley clan had to be continually renegotiated to allow the transfer of ore, jewels, food, and luxury goods in and out of the Grimm's underground city. Baltrog controlled the Oakborder road, and, he guessed, the other mountain pass. If he also controlled the two ports, he would effectively govern all the trade on the peninsula.

But why would he burn down this town, which was a major trade junction? It didn't make sense. But then, maybe Baltrog was not to blame for this crime.

In the center of the town they came across an open space of soot-stained cobblestones. This had clearly been the town square. In the middle was a stone well. There were dozens of charred bodies in the square, most burned beyond recognition.

"No ordinary fire," said Voltag.

Yolanthe agreed. The devastation was too complete. In a normal fire citizens would man bucket brigades and try to save certain buildings. And when a fire ran out of control, there was usually time for some people, perhaps most people, to escape the flames. But here, everything was burned, everyone was dead.

They crossed the square, stepping around the charred corpses. Voltag paused to look into the well.

"By Moradin's teeth," he cursed.

Yolanthe peered into the well too, and then stepped back in horror.

The well was full, almost to the top, with burned bodies.

"Why are they in there?" asked Voltag.

Yolanthe forced herself to look at the nearest body. It was burned to the bone, but it was physically intact. If anyone tried to move a body in such a state, it would crumble and collapse. That meant that it had to have been burned _in_ the well.

She looked at the cobblestones around the well. In the ash she could make out a confusion of footprints, all of them running towards the well.

"They jumped in the well to save themselves," she said. "To stop from being burned."

"But they are burned," said Voltag.

"I know. They were burned while they were hiding in the well. The fire came to them. It followed them."

Voltag tightened the grip on his axe. "I think we should go," he said.

They continued west on the road out of town. Almost all the buildings on this side of town were still flaming. Through the smoke they could see the edge of what was left of the town. Beyond it the road led to a bridge.

They were in the last block of the town when Yolanthe heard something. She had been listening to the sounds of the flames - the sizzle of sap boiling out of timbers, the crack of porcelain breaking in the heat – and the utter silence behind it, a silence only possible when nothing was alive. But now she heard something _within_ the crackle of fire, a regularity that should not exist. It was a faint rasping sound, almost a chuckle, almost a song.

She was just about to tell Voltag that she heard something when the dwarf pulled up short.

Ahead of them a flame jumped from a burning building onto the road. It burned there, flickering but not going out, even though there was no fuel for it on the cobblestones.

"That's not right," said Voltag.

The flame shifted and turned, revealing its true shape. It was a creature made entirely of fire. It was some two feet tall, and within the fire could be distinguished the white-hot slits that served it for eyes and a jagged slit of a mouth. It had no neck, but long spindly arms and legs of flame. It smiled terribly at them and began to caper with glee on the spot.

"What is it?" asked Voltag.

"Something magical," said Yolanthe.

The dwarf gave her a baleful glance. "That I could have guessed," he growled.

"A golem," she said. "Or a homunculus. Some sort of magic construct."

"This killed the people in the well?" he asked.

"It must have," she said.

"Then I'm going to put the blasted thing out," said Voltag.

He began to swing his axe from hand to hand. In a second it was whistling through the air.

"That might not work," said Yolanthe.

"Aye, but it might," said the dwarf as he advanced towards the fire creature.

The sweep of Voltag's axe was a foot from the flickering monster when the fire creature leapt into the air, flitted over his head, and landed behind him. Before the dwarf could spin around the fire creature swiped at his legs with one of its arms of flame.

The dwarf came around cursing. The back of his pants smoldered but did not flame. He swung the axe through the fire creature and allowed himself a grunt of satisfaction as it split in two.

But then the two flaming bits came together again. The creature capered and made the crackling noise that served it as a laugh. It pranced out of reach of the axe and flicked a spark at Voltag's beard. The wind of the dwarf's axe swept it aside before it could set his hair on fire.

Yolanthe pulled an arrow from her quiver. She ran a hand down its length and whispered an incarnation. She notched the bow and aimed at the creature.

"Duck!" she shouted.

Voltag threw himself on the ground as Yolanthe released the arrow. He could feel it pierce the air above his head.

The arrow passed through the homunculus, travelled another twenty feet, then hit a charred log. It exploded.

The homunculus wheeled to look at the explosion, then turned back towards Yolanthe and Voltag and made the crackling laugh.

Voltag rose to his feet. "That's not going to work," he grunted. He began to swing his axe again.

The homunculus darted a flame at Voltag's beard, singing it. The dwarf roared in anger and swung the axe through the creature's insubstantial body. It split and reformed instantly.

"Turn the axe sideways," said Yolanthe.

Voltag grunted and turned the handle of the axe so that it was moving with the blade right angles to the direction of the swing. The axe slowed down but the wind it made blew the homunculus back a few feet. The little being capered in anger as the dwarf advanced, blowing it away from him with the wind of the axe blade.

"Keep it there," said Yolanthe as she ran her hands over another arrow and whispered the incarnation again.

"I'm doing my best," said Voltag. "Any ideas?"

Yolanthe notched the arrow and aimed at the homunculus. "Yes," she said, then raised her bow straight up and fired. The arrow flew up some 200 yards, ran out of impetus, and began to arc back down to the ground.

"Get ready," said Yolanthe.

"For what?" said Voltag, still swinging his axe.

The arrow slammed down into the top of the homunculus, passed through its short body, and exploded as it hit the ground. The explosion blew the creature into hundreds of small points of fire. The concussion blew Voltag backwards off his feet. As he fell on his back, little bits of animate fire landed on him. He swatted them out.

Yolanthe ran forward and began stepping on the small flames that were scattered in a twenty-foot circle around the point of impact. Even as she stamped, some of the flames began to move back together, attempting to reform into the homunculus.

"Help me," she said as Voltag, shaking his head, rose to his feet. Some of the small bits of flame were now coalesced into slightly bigger fires, and these moved towards others. Seeing what was happening, Voltag began stomping on the flames. He used the side of his axe to mash out larger ones

After a few minutes of frantic stomping there was only one small fire left. It formed in to a miniature version of the homunculus and hopped up and down angrily.

Voltag looked down on it and said, "Out of the frying pan," then stamped on the flame and ground it out with his heel.

###

The bridge out of the town was burned down. The water of the river ran fast and muddy. Only some twenty feet across, it was too wide to jump and too deep to ford.

Voltag walked back and forth along the bank, studying it carefully and glancing up and down the river's length. He chewed at his lower lip and furrowed his brows.

"There might be a bridge further down stream," he said.

"No," Yolanthe replied. "I've boated down this river. This is the only bridge. Otherwise it's boats or swimming. But I've got an idea."

The half-elf took lifted the edge of her shirt to reveal a belt made of thin coiled rope. She unwrapped it from her body and carefully coiled on the ground. She tied one end of the rope to an arrow. She stood up and aimed her bow at a tree on the opposite shore.

"Even if you hit," said the dwarf, "The arrow will pull out of the tree."

Yolanthe said nothing. She aimed and let the arrow fly. The rope at her feet uncoiled as the arrow streaked towards the tree on the shore. To the dwarf's surprise, the arrow missed the trunk, shooting between a heavy branch on the right side of the tree. Just as it was flying past the tree Yolanthe placed her foot on the rope. The arrow stopped in mid flight, caught short by the rope, and jerked back. When it came back it came on the other side of the tree trunk and in its momentum it wrapped around the trunk of the tree several times before coming to a stop. Yolanthe picked up the rope and gave it a gentle tug. The rope was solid. It had wrapped over itself several times.

"Hold this tight," she said, picking up the rope at her feet. Voltag took it and gave it a good tug. It held fast.

"I don't want to cut this rope," said Yolanthe. "It's made of one strand of spider silk twined back on itself."

With Voltag holding the part of the rope that ran across the river, Yolanthe picked up the rest of the coil that lay at her feet and tied the other end of the rope to the middle of a heavy arrow. She aimed at the far bank and fired. The arrow, impeded in its flight by the rope tied at its mid-point, began to lose height and direction as it passed over the river. It turned perpendicular to the direction of flight and began to fall. Again Voltag thought he archer has missed her shot, but as the arrow fell the dwarf noted that it landed just on the far side of a rock with a vertical cleft in it. The rope fell smack into the cleft with the arrow on the far side.

Yolanthe gave that half of the rope a tug. It held fast, the arrow acting as an anchor.

The rope now formed a long narrow "V" across the river, with the end of the rope tied to the tree being somewhat higher than the end of the rope held by the rock.

"Pull the rope over this stump," said Yolanthe.

Voltag stepped back until he felt some tension in the rope. He put his weight into it and was able to hook the bend in the rope over a low stump on the riverbank. The rope now stretched tightly from the tree on the far bank to their side of the river, around the stump and back across the river to the rock. Yolanthe plucked the top rope. It was so tight it sounded a low musical note. She allowed herself a smile.

"Now what?" asked Voltag.

"We use the rope as a bridge. Walk on the lower one, hang on to the higher one," said Yolanthe.

"A bridge," said Voltag.

"Yes, a bridge."

The dwarf beetled his brows and turned to look at the river. He looked at the rope bridge and gave it an appraising tug. He walked closer to the river and stared at the rushing water. He came back to Yolanthe, chewing at his lower lip.

"Across the river?" he asked.

"Yes. On the rope," replied Yolanthe, surprised at the question.

"On the rope," repeated Voltag. "Over the water."

"Yes."

"This river here," said Voltag.

Yolanthe looked closely at the dwarf. Behind his bristling facial hair he seemed pale. A line of perspiration had broken out on his forehead.

"Is there a problem?" asked Yolanthe.

"Problem? No. No problem," said Voltag a bit too loudly. "Just making sure. This is the bridge. And that's the river. We take the rope over the river."

"That's the idea."

"Good. Good," said Voltag. "Right across the rushing water on the rope."

"Would you like me to go first?" asked Yolanthe.

"No, no," replied Voltag. "Well, if you'd like. No difference to me."

A thought struck Yolanthe. "Can you swim?" she asked.

"Swim? In water?" asked Voltag. "Most like. Never tried. Not a lot of call for swimming under the mountain."

The dwarf was rubbing his mouth with his hand and pacing.

"It's okay if you're afraid of the water," she said.

Voltag wheeled to face her. His face turned bright red. He began to speak but instead sputtered in rage. When he could finally talk his speech was an explosion of angry barks. "Afraid?!" he shouted. "Afraid?! Voltag Grimm, son of Tolman Grimm, thane of Grimm Mountain, afraid? I've never been afraid in my life! I've killed more monsters than you've had meals! I've been hung, surrounded by zombies! Magicified! But never afraid."

And with that he grabbed the top rope, put his feet on the bottom one, and began to sidestep along its length in a furious burst of action. Near the far shore he had to reach high for the top rope, but he was on the other side in less than a minute. He turned back to Yolanthe and shouted, "Who's afraid?"

"Not you!" she called back, trying to hide her smile. "My mistake!"

Chapter Twelve

Grimestoke finally found a clue in an old book of martial arts. Entitled _Palgreave Manot's Most Complete and True Anatomy of Weaponry, Armor, Fighting Styles, and Strategy_ , the book contained a chapter on axe fighting. After listing a variety of axes and speculating on their genealogies ("Does the double-head orc axe, renowned in southern realms, derive from the most ancient farming implement known as the two-chopper? Learned scholars disagree . . .") the author went on to discuss techniques of axe combat favored by dwarves, the race most associated with that weapon. The techniques listed, for the most part, involved over-head chops and cleaves. But at the end of that section was a passage that caught the gnome's eye:

What generalizations that may be made of the axe-fighting skills of dwarves must be laid aside, nay, _cast_ aside, when consideration is turned to the reclusive Grimm Mountain clan. These fearsome warriors have developed a martial art  & science based on the near-constant motion of their axes in complex arabesques through the air, a veritable storm of swings & passes. A Grimm Mountain dwarf armed with a well-balanced axe gives lie to the notion, held by so many ostensibly accomplished scholars of the arts of wars (a less generous spirit would point out just such an error in the work of Dol Saddlewon) that axe fighting is a primitive matter of hacking & hewing. Your humble author has seen with his own eyes, when travelling through the Caliron Pass, a Grimm Mountain dwarf reduce the great club of an attacking orc to sticks, nay splinters, nay _sawdust_ before dispatching the bewildered brute with a movement of swirling grace.

A trip to the map books revealed that the Caliron Pass was located hundreds of miles to the east in a short but very steep chain of mountains known as the Stone Spires. And there, at the far eastern end of the pass, was Grimm Mountain. It stood beside Needle Valley. It looked a remote and forbidding place. There was a small town, named Marketshire, in the foothills of the mountains. The map did not mark dwarven caves. In the corner of the map Grimestoke could make out a small note: "In accordance with the diaries of Litorn Kalrally."

The name was familiar.

The gnome began to search the library for a copy of Kalrally's diaries. He had no idea whether they might be there or not. As he searched his mind wrestled with the practical problem of organizing a library. As far as he could tell, the books in this room were organized by size. This saved shelf room as no space was wasted – small books were all in a line beside small books and large beside large – but it meant that there was no order to the collection. On a shelf of quarto-sized volumes he saw the following titles side by side: _Cats: A History and Cookbook_ , _So You Want to Charm Trolls_ , _The Necromancer's Spellbook of Arcane Secrets_ , and _A Traveler's Guide to the Elemental Planes_ .

As he searched he began to imagine a system for organizing large numbers of books. They should be arranged by topic, he thought. But also by author. But what about title? If all that information about any book were written on a scroll, no, on small slips of parchment, they could be arranged in different fashions and used to direct the curious towards shelves that would be marked by subject. Or author. It would take some thinking on.

As he ruminated on a system he came upon the diary by pure chance. It was a folio, at least 400 pages long, bound in lurid red leather. Grimestoke had trouble carrying the heavy tome down the ladder and over to the desk.

The first thing the gnome checked was the date. The book was only fifty years old and still had the smell of new vellum. He began to flip through the volume. Kalrally had been a human bard who had travelled the realms for over five decades. He claimed never to have slept under the same roof two nights in a row since he had turned twelve. Much of the book was given over to his amorous adventures, some of them patently unbelievable ("A night of sport was had in Tidelow that I will not soon forget. A lady elf and a lady hafling shared my . . ."), but about three-quarters of the way through the book he found a reference to the Stone Spires:

Leaving the town of Marketshire at something of a less-than-dignified pace because of the less-than-sympathetic attitudes of the fathers of assorted local wenches, I climbed the steep road eastward through the Spires. What terrible mountains they are! Cold, forbidding, and utterly devoid of the inns and taverns in which a handsome young bard might earn a coin or a kiss. On my second day of travel through said Spires a fearsome dwarf stepped out from behind a rock and demanded my business.

"I am but a travelling bard," said I, "Ready to sing for my room and board."

The fearsome fellow was a music lover and invited me to spend the night in his clan's cave. The clan was none other than the mysterious and seldom-seen Grimm Mountain clan! Their hospitality was royal and they were delighted by my songs and tales of goings-on in the realms. At a great feast I was invited to sit at the right hand of the clan thane, Tolman Grimm, and I was introduced to his two sons, Voltag and Rolf, both of them children but already possessing impressive beards (their mother, it seems, had died birthing the second child). It was a wonderful night made all the more memorable by the amorous attentions of one Tamara Leadenthigh, a young dwarfess smitten by my songs. She proved to be double-jointed and could . . .

Grimestoke closed the book. Now he remembered. He had not read the Kalrally's name, but heard it on one of his walks through the town. Where was it? A tavern, the one full of old people. He had stopped in there one night to hear some music. Grimestoke had soft spot for a good ballad, and since Baltrog did not allow music in the castle he often spent an evening in one of the taverns of the town, sitting at the back and wearing a hood so the locals wouldn't run from his presence. Kalrally had been a bard at that tavern. But that was some weeks ago. Would he still be in town? It was worth a trip to find out.

###

"You're sure this is the right place?" asked Baltrog.

"Yes, my Lord," answered Grimestoke.

They stood on one of the side streets of Tzanasaport outside the Rusty Spear tavern.

"I hate music," said Baltrog.

"I know, my Lord, but sometimes we must suffer for knowledge."

Baltrog made a face that said he accepted the point but was not pleased by it.

"Lead on," he said. "But if anyone sings 'tra-la-la,' I will incinerate the place."

Grimestoke pushed open the doors and led the way down the short flight of stairs into the warm and smoky room. There were two fireplaces, one at each end of the long rectangular space. The bar was in the middle, against the back wall. There were perhaps twenty tables, most of them occupied.

The crowd was old: old dwarves, old elves, old humans, halflings, gnomes, and various half-breeds. There was none of the raucous laughter or crude horseplay familiar in the other taverns of the city, the ones that catered to the young and to specific races. This was a tavern for those who were past such nonsense, who had no need to prove their meddle by downing excessive pints of ale or starting a fight. None of these patrons would spill onto the streets at closing time and rumble with another race that had been drinking at another bar down the street.

This was a tavern for the rarest of breeds – the old warrior – the fighter who made it into his or her golden years. It was a tavern for those who savored the irony of a warrior's last years: that the only people who would appreciate their company are the same who were they tried to kill so many decades ago. And so, in the shadows and quiet of the Rusted Spear, sworn enemies of 400 years sat arm in arm protested undying respect for their former foes as they salted their ales with tears and called for sentimental ballads.

Baltrog and Grimestoke took a seat at the back of the room just as those ballads began.

The bard was an old human. He was, perhaps, in his seventies, though he still moved with some grace. It was clear from the bone structure of his face and his posture that he must have been a handsome, even commanding, man in his time. He sat on a high stool beside one of the fireplaces and picked up a small lute that he tuned carefully. When he was satisfied, he strummed the instrument and began to sing in a sweet, slightly wavering voice. The song was about a battle that had taken place centuries ago. The narrator described walking the fields of glory where his ancestors had died generations ago.

The crowd gradually grew quiet as the song went on. By the end, several old warriors were surreptitiously wiping tears from their eyes.

The Lord Baltrog was bored.

After the song there was loud applause and customers began to shout requests:

"The Battle of Rock Mihide!"

"I'll Go No More to Tubber!"

"A Merry Tra-la-la!"

Baltrog gripped the edge of his table.

The bard began to sing, a capella, "I'll go no more to Tubber, for my heart belongs in Gort" and soon the entire room joined in, banging their tankards on the tables during the chorus. When the applause for that song died down, the bard played a sentimental love ballad and then a "The Battle of Rock Mihide."

There was one more ballad after that, and then the old bard said, "And now, my friends, a small pause while I wet my throat."

He stepped off the stool, placed his lute on its stand, and walked towards the bar.

Grimestoke got there before him and bought him a drink. In a minute he had brought him back to their table.

"Master Kalrally," said the gnome, "May I introduce, uh, Jonathan Drinkwater."

The bard shook Baltrog's hand and took a seat. "Drinkwater," he said. "Water's for bathing, not drinking."

He laughed at his little joke and Grimestoke joined in.

Baltrog smiled tightly.

"We're great fans of yours," he said.

"I have not seen you in the Spear before, sir," said the bard.

"We're fans of your _writing_ ," said Baltrog.

Kalrally sat up. "You've read my book? You've actually read my book?"

"Of course," said Baltrog. "A wonderful work of, um, travel literature. Thrilling and, uh, romantic."

"That is the single nicest thing that anyone had ever said to me," said the bard. He seemed on the verge of tears.

"And we were wondering if you could tell us a bit about some of the wonderful adventures you recount," said Baltrog.

"Especially about the east," said Grimestoke.

"The Spires," said Baltrog.

"Grimm Mountain," said Grimestoke.

"And the dwarves therein," said Baltrog.

"I have not thought of that journey in many years," said the bard. "Many many years. You will have to forgive an old man whose memory is not what it was."

Baltrog glanced at Grimestoke.

"What about the dwarfess?" Asked Grimestoke. "I believe her name was Tamara."

The bard's face lit up.

"Tamara," he said, savouring the word. "Tamara was exceptional. Did you know she was double jointed? She could . . ."

Baltrog interrupted him. "Yes," he said. "I know. But what we were more interested in was the Grimm family. I read that you met the thane and his two sons."

The bard shook his head to clear his mind of thoughts of Tamara and focused his watery eyes back on Baltrog.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I did. I remember now. I sang for the thane. They demonstrated their axe-fighting techniques for me."

He drew elaborate circles in the air with his hand while making whistling sounds.

"Most extraordinary," he said.

"We're interested in one of the sons," said Baltrog with elaborate patience. "And a dwarfess called Griselda."

"Ah! You know the story!" exclaimed Kalrally. "I have been working on a ballad about it. Would you like to hear it?"

"No, thank you," said Baltrog, but the bard did not seem to hear him.

"A dwarven lady there was, there was," he sang. "Her eyes were green and blue. But her heart, alas, was fickle, to her love she was not true. She ran away with a . . . urp!"

Baltrog had grabbed the bard by the throat and was squeezing. Grimestoke pulled at his arm.

"My Lord," he said. "This is not the place."

Various old warriors at surrounding tables were beginning to look over at them. One, a powerful if ancient human, had put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Baltrog smiled and released his grip. "Another drink for our friend," he cried to the barkeep, then turned his attention back to the frightened bard.

"Tell me the story," Baltrog whispered, "And I'll buy your drinks for the night. Sing, and I'll kill you."

Kalrally rubbed his throat. "Kill an old man," he said, "That's what the world has come to."

The barkeep placed a round of drinks on the table, looked carefully at the bard's company, and headed back to the bar.

"I'll tell you what I know," said the bard, "But I want something else."

"What might that be?" asked Baltrog.

The bard leaned forward, embarrassed. "A woman," he whispered. "Just for tonight. It's been a great while."

"Done," said Baltrog.

Kalrally took a long drink. "Tamara sent me a letter, many years ago," he said. "There was a great scandal in Grimm Mountain. It seems the thane's oldest son fell in love with a dwarfess named Griselda. She was from a good family so the marriage was approved and the entire clan celebrated their betrothal. But just before the wedding, she ran away."

"Ran away?" asked Grimestoke.

"Romantic, isn't it?" asked the Kalrally. "She met a bard at the local market in the foothills. She fell in love with him and ran off."

He leaned forward across the table. "And the strange thing, the scandal of it all," he whispered, "Was that he was an elf."

"An elf?" asked Baltrog.

Kalrally sat back in his chair and rapped his knuckles on the table. "An elf!" he declared. "Have you ever heard the like? A dwarf and an elf? Together? You know? _Together?_ "

"What then?" asked Baltrog impatiently.

"Well," said the bard leaning forward once more, "The two ran off, but the scandal it caused in Grimm Mountain was too much for the son. I wish I could remember his name."

"Voltag," said Grimestoke.

"Yes!" exclaimed the bard. "Voltag. Anyway, he was humiliated. Imagine, your fiancée runs off with an _elf_. And he was angry. Apparently he vowed vengeance to his brother. He said he would travel the ends of the earth, that he would never return to the mountain until he had found Griselda and killed the elf. And then, in proof of his vow, he pulled his axe and cut off one of his fingers because it bore a ring that she had given him as a token of her love. He took up the severed finger, grabbed his axe, and walked out of the mountain never to be seen again."

The bard sat back in his chair. "It will be a great ballad."

Baltrog and Grimestoke processed the news.

"Do you know the name of the elf?" asked the gnome.

"Yes, yes, I do," said Kalrally. "His name was Himo Songweaver. I met him once, many years ago before he found Griselda. He was an indifferent singer, but the ladies swooned over him."

Baltrog thought it over. All the pieces fit with what he had learned from the fat barkeep in Oakborder and what he had seen of the dwarf. But could it be as simple as that? Was all this nonsense the result of unrequited love? And what was Yolanthe doing with him?

He stood up and Grimestoke followed his example.

"Thank you," said Baltrog.

"What about, you know?" asked the bard.

"Oh, yes," said Baltrog. "Choose someone."

The bard looked eagerly around the room. In a second his eyes alighted on an elderly but hale dwarfess who was drinking alone at a table in the corner. He raised his eyebrows in her direction.

"For old times sake," said Kalrally.

"There is no arguing taste," said Baltrog.

With a flick of his wrist he cast a spell at the woman, then he and Grimestoke turned to leave. Just as they passed through the door they heard the voice of the dwarfess.

"I really liked your singing . . ."

Chapter Thirteen

Yolanthe and Voltag left the forests and entered the lowlands of the Finger of Torn an hour before dusk. The land had been farmed and used for grazing for centuries, and only a few small copses of trees decorated the landscape. It was after the harvest, so most of the fields lay fallow or newly plowed and seeded for next year's harvest. Small farms could be seen every couple of miles along the main road and the paths that branched off from it. In some fields, penned by ancient stonewalls, could be seen cattle, sheep, and goats.

Riding towards them on road came three men. As they drew closer Voltag instinctively reached up for the handle of his axe, but Yolanthe stopped him with a glance.

"They are from Seatorn. I can tell by the colours," she said.

When the riders came within haling distance of the dwarf and half-elf, they slowed their mounts to a trot and approached cautiously. Voltag squinted to make out their features against the setting sun. The lead rider was a human, perhaps forty years old, with a face worn with care. He wore a blue cloak embroidered with silver set in a wave pattern. The other two riders were younger and bigger. They both wore light armor and carried swords on their hips. They eyed the travellers warily as they approached and their hands lay on the pommels of their weapons.

When he was within ten feet the older man reined his horse to a stop.

"Hail, travellers," he said in a commanding voice. "What news?"

"Daleshire is destroyed," said Yolanthe. "The mountain roads are controlled by a sorcerer. Monsters and undead attack the unwary traveller."

The man stared at the half-elf as if hoping her statements were part of a joke and that she had forgotten to deliver the punch line. When it was clear that she was serious, the man slumped in his saddle.

###

Voltag and Yolanthe sat with the older human around a small fire. The two other riders stood guard in the darkness.

"I am Kerimos, First Scout of the Landguard of Seatorn," the human said. "I have been sent by the council to find out what has happened to the land trade. We have not had a caravan or merchant through in almost two weeks. Those that have left had disappeared without a trace. And no trade comes from Tzanasport. The council feared an avalanche had blocked the mountain routes, so I was sent to investigate. Another councilor was sent to Tzanasport. It is rumored that he was killed, tortured to death on some fiendish new machine. I don't know it is true or not, but he hasn't returned and all other legates have been turned away from the town. There is a sorcerer in the town, Baltrog, fancies himself a lord. He may be behind this."

"That he is," said Voltag.

"How do you know that?" asked Kerimos.

"Had some trouble with Bald-rock in the mountains. Heard from the locals. The man is mad," said the dwarf.

"Mad, but dangerous and very powerful," said Yolanthe. "He is terrorizing the towns along the trade routes and he has burned down at least one. He seems bent on isolating Seatorn, the whole Finger, from the rest of the world."

"Why?" asked Kerimos.

"Mad dog needs no reason to bite," grunted Voltag.

"I have heard," said Yolanthe, choosing her words carefully, "That Baltrog harbors a great hatred of Seatorn. This isolation of the Finger, the control of the trade routes, may be his way to starve the city."

"You hear a great more than we do," said Kerimos suspiciously.

"I've been travelling the mountain routes, stopping in the towns controlled by Baltrog. The people talk."

"That may be, but starving Seatorn is madness," said Kerimos. "Seatorn is a great port. Even in the winter the ships can make it through. He may cut us off from land travel, but never the sea. And the city walls are impregnable. He could not lay siege to them, a paltry wizard and his band of orcs. He must be mad."

The dwarf thought of something. "What about drinking water?" he asked. "Many a city has fallen when its aqueducts were cut."

"We have no aqueducts," said Kerimos. "Two rivers flow towards the tip of the Finger of Torn, where Seatorn lies. Both enter the ground outside the city. We collect the water in great cisterns beneath ground. There is so much water that we divert much of it to flush the sewers. The water supply cannot be cut off.

"No," said Kerimos, shaking his head. "If Baltrog is the mad dog you say he is, then he will have to be arrested for his crimes, stopped before he hurts anyone else. But that means a war."

"War?" asked Voltag.

"Seatorn and Tzanasport are city states. We have existed in peace as neighbors in the Finger for hundreds of years, but we are independent. Fiercely so. The other towns and the roads of the Finger are governed by one or other of the cities. There are elaborate treaties in place to keep this in order. But since the death of Tzanasport's royal family and the rule of Baltrog, all treaties have been ignored. To arrest him, we would have to enter the city, and that would mean war. But in truth there is little stomach for battle in Seatorn."

"Why not?" Asked Voltag. "It is a king's duty to protect his people's interests."

"Seatorn has no king," explained Kerimos. "The city is run by a council of elected officials. Order is kept by the Seaguards and the Landguards. There is no standing army. There has been no need for one. Until Baltrog. The council refuses to believe that one man could be causing all this trouble, but I am sure that he is."

"What else can you tell us about him?" ask Voltag.

Kerimos paused. "There are rumors that he is not alone," he said. "He has a gnome by his side, an evil creature who acts as his secretary and torturer. And he travels with an assassin."

"Assassin?" asked Yolanthe quietly.

"No one has ever seen him," said Kerimos. "But he is the most accurate, lethal archer in realms. They say he can shoot through the crack in a castle wall and hit a man sitting at his dinner in middle of a great hall."

Voltag looked at the half-elf, then back at Kerimos.

"Nonsense," he said.

"Maybe," agreed Kerimos. "But the assassinations of Baltrog's enemies were conducted by an archer, or archers, of supernatural skill."

They sat staring into the fire in silence for a few minutes.

"So how will you deal with him?" asked Yolanthe.

"I have to return to Seatorn and report to the council, but it is in my authority to hire mercenaries to . . . _help_ with problems. If Baltrog were killed by people not associated with Seatorn, then war could be averted," said Kerimos carefully.

He looked up at the dwarf and half-elf.

"Have I found some?" he asked.

Voltag and Yolanthe looked at each other. Holding the half-elf's gaze, Voltag said, "I have promised to kill this man. If you'll pay me to do so, all the better."

Yolanthe swallowed hard. "Where my friend fights," she said quietly. "I will fight."

Kerimos's eyes darted back and forth between the two adventurers. He didn't understand their bond, but he recognized its intensity.

"I did not say kill."

"We'll _help_ in what way we can," said Voltag.

Kerimos thought this over. "All right then," he said as the thrust a stick into the fire. "You're on the payroll. But if Baltrog is not behind these goings on, then he must be left in peace. If he is, then use your discretion. I shall tell the council that I have asked you look into our problem with the man. Report to me in Seatorn when the problem is corrected for your pay."

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning the three men from Seatorn parted from Voltag and Yolanthe to continue their survey of the Finger of Torn. The dwarf and half-elf took the road to Tzanasport. They walked through rich farmland punctuated with small stands of trees. They saw no people. It was as if the entire population of the countryside was in hiding.

By mid-day they could see the walls of a small city. It was a port, and they caught glimpses of the flashing blue sea behind it whenever the ground was high enough. Although the city was walled, many buildings had been built outside the walls. It looked as thought the city had spilled over onto the countryside. On the far right corner of the wall was a castle. It was three sided, and at each of the three corners was a tower. The tallest one was closest to the sea

"That is Tzanasport," said Yolanthe. "Baltrog lives in the castle."

"Might be people who know you there," said the dwarf.

Yolanthe nodded in agreement. She stopped walking, took off her pack, and pulled out a cloak that she had borrowed from Kerimos. She put it on and pulled its hood over her head.

"How do I look?" she asked.

"Like yourself in a hood," grunted Voltag. "You'll need something else."

Yolanthe searched her pack but could find nothing else for a disguise. Voltag's small pack contained even less.

"Your hair," said Yolanthe.

"What about it?" asked Voltag, suspicious.

"Let me cut a piece off, from the back."

Voltag eyed her suspiciously but did not say no. Yolanthe produced her knife and cut a piece of the dwarf's hair about six inches in length. She then cut the strands in half and spread them out in her hand. "This might work," she said.

She handed the hair to Voltag and reached into her quiver. From the bottom she pulled up a small cloth that contained her arrow-making tools: a special plane, arrow heads, fine binding string, feathers for the flights, and a small block of hard glue.

Half an hour later she placed the glue into a small pot of water that they had boiled over a fire. It quickly dissolved and formed a jelly-like substance. She lifted the pot off the fire with her knife, and waited for it to cool. When she could touch it, she smeared a line of it on her chin and another on her upper lip. Then she carefully pressed the dwarf's hair into the glue.

"By Moradin's corns and bunions," said the dwarf. "You look like a lad."

Yolanthe examined herself in a small steel mirror. "Not bad," she said. "We'll say I'm your page. My name will be Chuck."

"Chuck? What kind of name is that?" asked Voltag.

"It was the name of my ferret," she said.

The dwarf grunted, then hoisted his pack onto his shoulder and slipped his axe into the sling on his back. "Well, Chuck," he said, "It's time to pay a visit."

As they followed the main road towards the stone buildings of the town, Voltag and Yolanthe found themselves walking through a slum-like tent city that spread out from the road into the surrounding countryside. The denizens of this makeshift suburb were furtive and suspicious, casting black glances at the travellers from where they sat hunched over smoky fires or peering from tattered tents made of animal skins. Dirty urchins wrestled in the dust and chased each other between the flimsy structures. Tired women with heavy make-up gestured listlessly from tents lit by red lanterns. Hard-looking men of various races tossed dice in the dirt, sharpened blades, or sat drinking themselves into sullen stupors.

"It wasn't like this before," whispered Yolanthe to Voltag.

The dwarf said nothing but cast a wary eye on the larger men who watched them from the side of the road. They radiated the menace of the bored. Voltag was glad that none of them seemed organized into any sort of collective.

A hugely fat man stepped into the road in front of them. He was heavily perfumed and wore ostentatious jewelry. As Voltag stopped he wondered how the man managed to keep such ornaments in this dangerous setting. The speculation was answered when two hulking and heavily armed men fell in behind the fat man. Bodyguards, obviously, Voltag took them to be ex-professional fighters. They bore scars and crooked noses on their faces. Both held weapons, the one to the right a spiked club, the other what looked like a giant meat cleaver.

"How much for the boy?" asked the fat man.

At first Voltag didn't understand the question, but then he realized that this man had been totally fooled by Yolanthe's disguise.

"Ain't for sale," grunted the dwarf.

"Everything's for sale," said the man. "It's all about negotiating a price."

The man reached into a purse and pulled out some coins.

"Two gold coins," he said. "More than fair."

"Ain't selling," said Voltag. "Period."

"Ah," said the man. "I love to barter." He gestured at the hulking men behind them. "These are my negotiators."

The two fighters tightened their grips on their weapons. The one with the cleaver smiled toothlessly.

Voltag did a quick calculation. He could take out the fat man before the fighters had stepped forward, but he won't be able to get around the corpse to get at those men efficiently. He couldn't count on Yolanthe using her bow since she had it hidden under her cloak. Even if he got to one of the thugs the other would be sure to flank him. These men had the look of seasoned street fighters. And he couldn't be sure that some of the other men on the side of the road watching this encounter with interest wouldn't enter a fight too. He _could_ get his axe swinging to defend himself, but where would that leave Yolanthe? There was nowhere to bury her and, besides, these weren't brainless undead adversaries.

Before he could come to a decision Yolanthe spoke up in an imitation of a boy's voice.

"Then they had better negotiate with the Lord Baltrog, for I am his nephew and this is my guard," she said.

"Nephew?" asked the fat man, worried.

"Ask him yourself, if you don't believe me," continued Yolanthe. "Or ask his friend Grimestoke. He used to babysit me."

The fat man considered. "My apologies, young master," he said finally. "May I offer you my services? I am Reffie of the Plains, a dealer in, um, exotic merchandise."

Yolanthe bowed. "Thank you Reffie," she said. "There is nothing I need now except safe passage to the town, but I will be sure to mention your kindness to my uncle."

"Thank you, young master," replied Reffie, bowing low. When he came up he clapped his hands at his bodyguards. "Fools!" he shouted. "Run ahead and clear the street. The lord's nephew is here."

Reffie stepped to the side and bowed again, sweeping his hand to indicate that the way was now clear. And indeed, the two bodyguards were jogging down the road kicking and pushing people out of the way. Yolanthe nodded her head in appreciation, and began to walk with lordly gate towards the town. Voltag followed, acting the part of guard. As he passed Reffie, their eyes met briefly in an exchange of mutual suspicion. Voltag nodded and walked on.

The slum by the side of the road became more densely populated the closer Voltag and Volathe got to the town proper. The tents were more crowded together, the smell of garbage and human waster became stronger, and smoke from the many small fires filled the air. The two bodyguards had so many people to clear from the street that they stopped pushing and shoving and began to prod people back with their weapons.

Finally they reached the one of the gates in the city walls. A line up of people was waiting to talk to a guard armed with a halberd. Reffie's bodyguards simply pushed and prodded the people in line out of the way until Voltage and Yolanthe stood before the guard, a tall man who seemed amused at the spectacle of people scrambling before the two massive guards.

Yolanthe turned to the two guards. "Thank you, kind sirs," she said. She reached into her purse, pulled out a coin, and flicked it in the air. The toothless guard went to grab the coin while it was still in flight but his companion pushed him out of the way. The coin fell on the ground and rolled away from the city. In seconds the two guards were wrestling on the cobblestones for it.

The guard smiled at the fight, then turned his attention to the dwarf and boy.

"Friends of Reffie?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"Aye," said the dwarf. "I am Voltag Grimm, looking to book passage to south. This is my ensign, Chuck."

"Chuck?" Sneered the guard. "Stupid name."

He lifted his halberd. "See the passage agent at the red dock," he said. "And stay out of trouble."

The dwarf nodded and the two of them entered the city.

Tzanasport was a town of narrow, dark streets and furtive people, but it was as clean and orderly as its suburbs were filthy and chaotic. The cobblestones had been newly scrubbed, buildings were freshly whitewashed, and no waste littered the streets. Even the laundry strung hung on lines strung between the second stories of the houses was organized by colour and gender of the owner.

The few people that the travellers saw avoided their glances and scurried behind their freshly painted doors as soon as the could.

They quickly came to the central square of the town, an open plaza surrounded on all four sides by two-story buildings. Like the rest of the town, it was scrupulously clean and sparsely populated. The few people in the square who noticed Voltag and Yolanthe quickly ducked down side streets. In a minute the square was deserted except for a woman filling a jug at the water fountain. Wrapped in her business she did not see them or hear them approach behind her.

"Excuse me," said Yolanthe.

The woman jumped as though stung, spun around and dropped her water jug. It shattered on the cobblestones.

"Oh no!" she cried. "Oh no! Look what you've made me done."

"I'll pay for it," began Voltag, but the woman ignored him, dropping to her knees and frantically picking up the pieces of the broken jug.

"Oh, the mess!" she wept as she cleaned.

Sensing her distress, Yolanthe bent down beside her and helped her pick up the pieces.

"Was it special?" she asked as she cleaned.

"No, no," said woman. "But _he's_ coming soon and he mustn't see the mess."

"Who's coming?" she asked.

"Him. The little man who works for the lord," said the woman, putting the last pieces of the jug into her apron. She used her sleeve to wipe up the spilled water.

Yolanthe stood up as the woman scurried off. The little man could only be Grimestoke. Yolanthe remembered what a fastidious little monster he had been. He would arrange all his mechanical toys and pieces in elaborate shelves; he would only eat if the table and room were spotless; he had his clothes laundered every day. Now he was imposing his bizarre fastidiousness on a whole town.

"What was that about?" asked Voltag.

"Baltrog's partner, the gnome. He seems to be running the town. I guess he makes rounds everyday and doesn't like to see a mess."

"No mess?" said Voltag. "Hmm."

He surveyed the square. "There's got to be a place where you can buy food round here," he said. "Let's take a look.

Chapter Fifteen

A town, even a city, is like a machine. Dozens, even of hundreds of actions go on within its walls simultaneously and they must all be running at optimum precision if the machine as a whole is to function effectively. Take, for example, waste disposal. If even one person empties his chamber pot onto the street, then what? Flies and vermin will be attracted. Flies and vermin attract disease and larger vermin who prey on the smaller. Soon street traffic is disrupted because of the insects and animals and efficient movement through the town is impeded. That hurts the markets which in turn hurts the finances and reputation of the town, and soon businesses are closing shop. One emptied chamber pot could turn a well-run town into an infested, plague-ridden ghost town.

So thought Grimestoke as he made his late morning rounds of Tzanasport. As he walked down the gentle hill from the castle, he prided himself on the many improvements he had made in the town – at the Lord Baltrog's behest, of course – since they had arrived there some years ago. How inefficient the place had been! People used to wash windows whenever they felt like it, and some not at all. Market days used to be on Thursday, which disrupted the commerce of Wednesday afternoon and Friday morning. Clothes were hung on lines in any old order, and there were sometimes line-ups at the water fountain.

He had straightened out all of that chaos. A series of by-laws, complicated, yes, but necessary, were passed about every aspect of public like in Tznasaport and were implemented with brutal, but necessary, force. And what a world of difference it made! As the little man walked towards the central square he marveled at the cleanliness of the streets, the order of the laundry, the tidiness of the store fronts, and the entire lack of dogs. Grimestoke hated dogs. Dirty, noisy animals. That had been the first by-law – no dogs in the town.

Whistling to himself as he made his way down the empty street, Grimestoke paused just before the corner that led into the central square. The reformation of that square had been his masterstroke. When he had found it the square had been little better than a vulgar meeting place for ne'er-do-wells and idle housewives. People used to gather there at all hours to talk and even eat and drink. What inefficiency! What a waste of time and labour! Grimestoke had shut down the food vendors in the square and set strict time limits on how long a person might stay in that public space: six and a half minutes if filling a water container, seven minutes and twenty seconds if you were coming from the south side of the square as it took an extra 50 second to cross the square from that direction. Now the square was a model of cleanliness and efficiency.

Grimestoke stepped into the square and surveyed it. Excellent. Not a gossip or vagrant in sight. He headed towards the southern exit when something caught his eye. Right there, near the west side of the square there was something on the ground! He walked closer. This was much worse than something. This was garbage! Someone had thrown fruit and vegetables on the ground and had stomped them into a mush. And flies were gathering around the pulp! It was too disgusting and inefficient to be allowed.

The gnome scanned the square looking for the vandal who had dared to leave this mess. Who ever it was would soon help test the latest refinement of his new torture machine, but he could see no one.

But there was some _thing_ in the small alley that led off the western side of the square, something on the ground. He headed into the alley and soon came upon the object. It was more garbage, some sort of meat that had been trampled on. Who ever made the first mess came this way and Grimestoke set out to find him or her.

The gnome broke into a run. The garbage was fresh. The person who left it couldn't be far ahead. In a minute he was deep into the winding alley and heading back uphill in the general direction of the castle. He saw no more garbage until he rounded a corner and almost toppled over a large mound of rags and tatters. He pulled up short and examined the heap. It smelled of sweat and dirt. It looked, in the dim light of the alley, as though the rags were wrapped around something, some sort of large bundle.

Grimestoke gingerly touched the pile with the toe of his boot. Immediately the pile rolled over and the gnome found himself staring into the smiling face of a dwarf. No, not any dwarf. _The_ dwarf. The one from Oakborder. Voltag Grimm.

"Remember me?" asked the dwarf.

Grimestoke spun around to run but found himself staring at the point of an arrow ready to fly from a long bow. The gnome swallowed, and focused his eyes past the deadly point to the person who held the weapon. It was a young man, scarcely a boy. But there was something familiar about him, something very familiar. Take away the moustache and the hood and it could be . . . No. It couldn't be. Not her.

"How about me?" Yolanthe asked.

Chapter Sixteen

Voltag and Yolanthe marched Grimestoke through the deserted alleys of the town towards the castle. Yolanthe had put away her bow but the dwarf kept a hand on the gnome's shoulder and a dagger pressed against the small of his back. Grimestoke thought he might be able to outrun the dwarf, but before he got ten paces the half-elf would have her bow out. There was no way to avoid her shot.

"Nice and easy," muttered Voltag as they approached the fort. "Say you're taking us in for making a mess."

There were two guards at the side door of castle. Both snapped to attention when the gnome appeared.

"I'm bringing these two with me," said the little man. "Trouble makers."

The guards saluted but said nothing and in a second all three were inside the castle.

"Where's Baltrog?" asked Voltag, giving the gnome a poke with his dagger.

Before he could answer, Yolanthe said, "He'll be in his study, if he's not eating."

"He's in the dungeons," Grimestoke said. "See for yourself."

Voltag considered. "Study first," he said. "You lead the way."

The inside of the fort was a warren of passageways interrupted with large, studded, wooden doors. The gnome led them down several hallways until the came to a stone staircase that spiraled up.

"I remember this," said Yolanthe. "It's the only way to the study. There's a door at the top of the stairs."

"Lead on," said Voltag, giving Grimestoke another poke with the dagger.

The three of them made their way up the stairs that were poorly lit by infrequent smoky candles mounted on the curving wall. Voltag estimated that they had made three complete revolutions while climbing before they came to short hallway that ended in a door clad in metal. There was an elaborate lock set above the door handle.

"Open it," said Voltag.

Grimestoke reached into his vest and pulled out an elaborate key. He inserted it in the key hole,

"Something's wrong," began Yolanthe. The hallway floor that she and the dwarf were standing on seemed less solid than she remembered it being. She also noticed that the candleholder on the wall beside them was different than all the others they had passed.

The gnome twisted the key to the right and quickly twisted it back to the left. The two floor stones that Voltag and Yolanthe were standing on shifted.

"Jump!" shouted Yolanthe, but it was too late. Voltag fell backwards into her just as she was trying to jump to the stair behind her. Together they tumbled down a stone shaft, falling some fifteen feet before landing in a pile of dirty hay. The dwarf hit first. Yolanthe fell on top of him. Rats squealed beneath their bodies.

"Are you alright?" asked Yolanthe, feeling around for the dwarf in the dim light.

Voltag grunted. "Better when you get off me," he said.

"Well well well," the little man snickered. "Three holes in the ground, as the old joke goes. Well well well."

They looked up to see the outline of Grimestoke's head peeking over the edge of the shaft.

Before the gnome had finished his last "well," Yolanthe had her bow up with an arrow cocked. She sent it flying upwards just as Grimestoke pulled his head back. It slammed harmlessly into the ceiling of the stairwell and fell back down.

"A miss is as good as a mile," came the gnome's voice. They heard the little man snicker again and rattle the complicated door lock. "Be seeing you soon!" he called. They heard him tinker with something mechanical and then slam the door.

"You might have told me about the trap," muttered Voltag.

"It's new," said Yolanthe. "We have to get out of here before Baltrog comes."

"Right," said the dwarf. "Up on my shoulders, see if you can reach the edge."

Voltag intertwined his fingers to offer Yolanthe a step up. She put her foot in his hands and nimbly climbed onto the dwarf's shoulders. Voltag felt as solid as a stump under her feet. Standing on her toes, she could almost reach the edge of the floor. She hopped off Voltag.

"Can you reach?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Then climb out," said Voltag. "And toss me a rope."

"No. There's something wrong. Grimestoke would not make a trap this easy to escape. He loves complicated, sadistic machines. And I heard him fiddling with something up there."

Voltag grunted. "Maybe he's lost his touch."

Yolanthe bend down and scooped up some of the rotting hay on the floor. A dozen rats squeaked in protest. Forming the damp hay into a rough ball, she gently lobbed it up. As it cleared the lip of the shaft a blast of flame shot sideways from somewhere they could not see. The ball of hay floated down as so many ashes.

Voltag grunted. "Well, not that way." He began to survey the space they were in. It was about seven feet round, made of crudely cut stone blocks set in a roughly circular pattern. A skilled climber could probably scale the wall easily but would be cooked when he reached the top.

"I don't see anything," he said.

"No," replied Yolanthe. "But listen."

The dwarf focused his hearing but could make out no sounds.

"Don't hear nothing," he said.

"Exactly," Yolanthe replied. "Why did the rats stop squeaking?"

That _was_ strange. The rats that scurried through the damp hay on the floor of the shaft had been making a panicked racket since the two interlopers had fallen into their space. But now they were completely quiet.

Yolanthe bend down to run her hands through the hay, looking for the rats. As soon as she hunkered down, she made a soft sighing sound and began to topple forward. Voltag grabbed her by the shoulder before she could fall and pulled her up. She held her head as though dizzy.

"Gas," she said. "There's gas collecting in the shaft."

Voltag looked down but could see nothing. Yolanthe had felt dizzy when she had lowered her head close to ground. That meant that the gas was at the level of his waist and probably rising.

"Soon we won't be able to breath," said Yolanthe.

Voltag ground his teeth. "Look for something," he said. "Anything."

While Yolanthe ran her hands over the stone wall, Voltag stared at the stone blocks that made their prison and tried to remember what he knew about stone cutting and setting. All the dwarves of his tribe spent some years working with the master stonemasons of Grimm Mountain. In case of an earthquake or cavern collapse, it was important that all the members of the clan knew the basic techniques of stone construction so they could effectively dig out trapped friends or work around destroyed supports. The dwarves of the Grimm tribe not only hewed their stone blocks into perfect, regular blocks, but they carved tenons and mortises in them so that when they were fit together they could not be shifted. To create a gas vent through such blocks a Grimm Mountain dwarf would probably carved a small channel into stones before they were put in place.

But the stone wall that Voltag was staring at was not made by dwarves. It was too crude, too sloppily put together. The blocks were held in place not by mortise and tenon, but by cheap mortar. He tried to imagine how a non-dwarf, how a lazy human might go about building such a wall and how he might incorporate a gas vent into it. First, he would put the vent up high so that the gas would rise and cover the head of even a tall prisoner. Second, he would probably try to disguise the vent so a prisoner could not find it and block it. Third, the channel to the vent would probably just be chiseled through one of the blocks from the far side. If crudely done, the channel would be quite wide, ending in a small hole on this side of the block. And there would have to be some sort of room on the far side of that part of the wall in which the gas would be manufactured.

Voltag unsheathed his axe. Holding it high on the shaft with both hands, he knocked the butt of the shaft against the wall. It sounded solid. He walked around small space tapping the wall every few inches. Finally he heard a sound that was slightly different. It still sounded like solid rock, but there was the faintest of echoes behind it. He looked up and could see a small horizontal slit in one of the stone blocks about eight feet from the floor.

"That's where the gas is coming in," he said. Then he felt dizzy. He immediately worried that the gas was now at the level of his head, but when he stepped back from the wall the dizziness receded. Clearly the gas was running down the side of the wall like a stream of invisible water. When he had stood beneath the opening, he had been in the stream. Its strange metallic scent stayed with him.

"Okay," said Yolanthe. "What now?"

"Stand back," said the dwarf. He pulled one of his daggers out of his sleeve and held it in his teeth. He flattened himself against the part of the wall farthest away from the vent and sprung forward while swinging his axe over his head. The bottom heel of the blade caught on small outcropping on the wall just below the vent. Using the shaft of the axe as a rope, he pulled his body up to the blade, trying all the time not to breath the gas that trickled down towards him. He reached one hand over the axe blade, grabbed hold of the part of the handle that protruded from the eye of the blade, and pulled himself higher. He was now level with the gas vent. He could feel the coolness of the gas pouring past his head, but he continued to hold his breath. Holding his weight with his one hand, he took the dagger in his other and thrust it into the vent. He twisted the knife. Thin pieces of rock crumbled away. He worked until he could hold his breath no longer, then dropped to the floor of the shaft. He unhooked the axe from the wall. He had managed to make a hole a couple of inches in diameter in the gas vent.

"Your turn," said Voltag, panting from the exertion.

Yolanthe unsheathed her bow and arrow.

"Boost me," she said.

Voltag leaned against the wall opposite the gas vent and Yolanthe clambered onto his shoulders. She was on eye-level with the small hole in the far wall. She could see a bit of light at the end of it, doubtless a candle in the chamber where one of Grimestoke's helpers was making the gas. Balancing there, she nocked her arrow. She let out a shrill whistle and waited, motionless. The small spot of light flickered, then darkened. Whoever was in the chamber was peering through the vent to see what was happening.

She let the arrow fly. It streaked into the hole, through the vent, and struck something. Through the small vent she could her the sound of screams and smashing glass. Then it fell silent.

She hopped off Voltag's shoulders.

"I got him," she said. She crossed to the wall with the gas vent and placed her hand on the stone just below the hole. She could not feel the cold gas trickling down. "The gas has stopped. But how do we get out of here?"

Voltag smiled. "Let me show you how a dwarf handles stone," he said.

Chapter Seventeen

Grimestoke danced with glee into Baltrog's study. He had caught both the dwarf and the half-elf! And to imagine that Baltrog had first balked at the expense of the new trap! Well, he, Grimestoke, had been right, and now he had two pretty birds in his trap. Baltrog would be pleased. Oh, he would be very pleased. Perhaps even more pleased then when Grimestoke had built the amplifier, that ingenious device that increased the strength of some of Baltrog's spells. Yes, even more than that.

Grimestoke skipped across the floor of the study to Baltrog's chair. He was just about to declare their good fortune when he stopped in his tracks. Baltrog's eyes were shut and his right hand was pressed against his chest just over his heart.

Oh no, thought Grimestoke. Not now.

Baltrog was in a trance. That was what he called them. Grimestoke called them naps, but Baltrog insisted they were deep meditative states that he entered to renew his magical powers. And he had warned Grimestoke that he was never to be spoken to, never to be touched, when he was in one of his trances.

And so Grimestoke hopped from one foot to another in quiet frustration.

###

When does magic start?

It was an interesting question, one that Baltrog came back to whenever he had finished a particularly satisfying spell. Obviously, for some people magic started when they began to study magic. Wizards, people without innate magic ability, approached magic the way a cobbler approaches shoemaking or an oyster-monger learns to shuck bivalves. They had to crack open the books, memorize the incantations, learn the gestures, invoke the right deities. They had to _practice_. Magic could start for them whenever they chose to apply themselves.

Poor beggars, though Baltrog. Imagine having to _work_ at magic, having to sweat over every magic accomplishment. The only surprises such a drudge would ever have in his yeoman-like toil would be when a well-studied spell fizzled. Such base craftsmen would never feel the thrill of magic coming from within, would never feel the elation of a having a spell work better than planned. Better not to touch magic at all if you can only wield it as a clumsy tool.

For him it had been different. Like so many sorcerers, his magic, his innate gift for magic, had showed itself during puberty. He had been fourteen, a thin, reticent child with no real friends, no real interests, a dead mother and a father so consumed with his work that he was rarely home. It had been during the year when his voice had begun to crack and hair had begun to sprout on his body that he has discovered his talent. It had happened during a lesson. His father worked long hours so Baltrog, still called Edwin (Edwin!) in those days, had been left in the care of a tutor, a cranky old drunk who went by the pretentious name of Sage. One afternoon Sage had gotten into his cups more than usual and had begun to berate Edwin about his future.

"Your father is a great man!" he had shouted, banging his tankard on the table. "A generous, wise man. But most of all, a hard-working man. That's the key! Hard work. You can be as talented as you want but without hard work, without diligence and sweat and toil, you're no better than, than . . ." He had scanned the kitchen for something to use as an example and settled on a fly that buzzed around a chopping block. "Than that fly. Look at it. Dirty lazy thing. That's you. That's you if you don't study, if you don't apply yourself. Dirty and lazy. And do you know what happens to dirty lazy things? Do you, lad? This."

Sage had picked up on of his scrolls and swatted the fly out of the air. It landed on the kitchen table, dead.

"That's you," said Sage. "An insect. Dead. No good for anything. A dead bug. Not worth a second look."

As young Edwin stared at the mashed fly, he had felt something shift in his mind. It was a strange sensation, as though part of his brain had been hidden behind a door that suddenly opened. His mind suddenly felt large, infinitely large, but at the same time cold. And he felt as though an unknown space in his chest was filling with anger the way an urn filled with wine. The sensation made him felt dizzy so he focused his attention on the fly to steady himself.

"Dead with nothing to show!" Sage continued to rant. "Dead dead dead!"

No, Edwin had thought. As simple as that: no.

The fly buzzed weakly. It flipped over and tried to crawl with a smashed thorax.

"It's not dead," said Edwin.

"What?" asked the befuddled Sage. "What?"

Then he had noticed the fly crawling across the kitchen table towards him. He stared at it in surprise and brought his fist down on it.

"It's dead now," he said with satisfaction, looking at the squished bug. "Just as you'll be, with nothing to show."

"I don't think so," said Edwin quietly. He focused that cold sensation in his mind on the shattered insect.

It began to stir.

Sage leaned away from the animated corpse on the table. "What?" he gaped.

The dead fly flew, or perhaps jumped, off the table and straight into Sage's open mouth. The tutor choked, falling backwards out of his chair onto the floor, grabbing at his throat while trying to cough out the dead insect that buzzed in his throat. Edwin watched the man writhe on the floor for a few minutes and then went out for a walk. When he returned the tutor, his bags and books, were all gone.

The next tutor that Edwin's father hired was a polite teetotaller.

It was shortly after that first discovery that Edwin began to make friends. Because he had been an awkward child with no interest in sports or rough-housing, he did not associate with most of the children his own age who took pleasure in games of strength and skill. He feared them to the point of avoiding them on the streets. Those children, with their unerring animal-like ability to smell weakness, soon took to taunting Edwin whenever he ventured from the house. So he had been a social outcast for as long as he could remember. But after he discovered his ability with the dead fly, Edwin began to notice a different sort of child in the alleys of his home town. These kids, a mixture of races, boys and girls, and different ages, kept aloof from the other children but were not bothered by them. Indeed, one day as Edwin was idly looking out of the second-story window of his house he saw a group of thug-like guttersnipes coming upon the motley collection of assorted children and instead of taunting or teasing them, the tougher children had turned and run away.

Interesting, thought Edwin.

The next day he went in search of the small band of children. He eventually found them in a dead-end alley, exactly the sort of place he always avoided for fear of being trapped there by a gang of bullies, hunched over something. He had come up quietly behind them. They seemed to be conducting some sort of experiment.

"Hello," he had said. Four of the children jumped up at the sound. A fifth remained hunched over something on the alley floor.

"What do you want?" demanded the largest of the children. He was, perhaps, fifteen, with bad skin and teeth. Edwin had seen him before. He was the son of the least respectable apothecary in the town.

"That's Edwin," said another, a halfling boy, perhaps ten years old. "He's the rich kid."

"I'm not rich," Edwin said, bristling. "My dad works for the city. He runs the water."

"He sure acts rich," said the hafling.

"What do you want?" asked the older child again. "This is not for you."

"What are you doing?" asked Edwin.

"Magic," said the child who was still crouching on the ground.

Edwin could see now that it was a girl. She was maybe thirteen years old, with black hair and exotic features that betrayed a hint of hafling, or perhaps elvish, blood in her background. Edwin knew that she was the daughter of a woman who worked in a bar down by the docks. It was rumored that she had to spend many nights sleeping in the bar because her mother often entertained clients in the one room apartment they shared above a fish store. Her name was Tinder.

She opened her clasped hands. Floating just above her palms was a small dot of bright light that shimmered like a living thing. It was beautiful. The other children all stared at it.

"That's the best one yet," said another child, a girl who could not have been more than eight.

Slowly the little light faded and went out. The children gave a collective sigh of disappointment.

"How did you do that?" asked Edwin.

"I told you," said Tinder, standing up and smoothing her worn dress. "Magic."

"We can all do magic," said the older child belligerently. "So you had better watch it, cause some of it hurts."

"I fixed a hurt bunny," said the smallest girl proudly.

"So if you can't do magic," continued the oldest boy, "Take off. And don't even think about telling anyone about us."

Edwin looked at the group of children. They were all in some way misfits. Most came from poor families, none had tutors or had been to school. None were physically prepossessing, though Tinder showed sings of becoming an exotic beauty. But they had each discovered that they had innate magic abilities and had somehow found each other. They had become friends.

The group turned to leave the alley. As they passed the large boy slammed his shoulder into Edwin.

"Don't tell anyone," he hissed.

The gang was almost at the mouth of the alley when Edwin found his voice.

"I can do magic," said Edwin.

The gang stopped.

"What?" asked Tinder.

"I can do magic," he said. "Scary magic."

"He's lying," said the large boy.

"Prove it," Tinder said to Edwin.

Edwin looked around the ground of the alley. He was searching for an insect, something he could kill and reanimate. There were flies but when Edwin tried to swat one out of the air he missed.

"Missing flies ain't magic," said the large boy with a laugh.

Edwin saw something rustle under some waste rags lying against the wall of the alley. He stomped on it, hoping it was a large spider, but was greeted with an agonized squeak. When he pulled back the rags he found that he had crippled a mouse. He picked the injured animal up by the tail. He had only practiced his magic trick with insects, but he could not back down now.

"Come here," he said to the children.

The gang came back down the alley and stood around Edwin. Edwin held the mouse out to the large boy. "Kill it," he said.

"Why should I kill it?" the boy asked.

"Are you afraid?" asked Edwin.

The boy shot a glance at Tinder, then puffed up his chest and said, "I ain't afraid of anything." He took the mouse by the tail.

"I can fix it," said the little girl.

"Shut up," said the boy. He grabbed the mouse with his other hand and broke its neck. The creature dangled limp from its tail.

"Is it dead?" asked Edwin.

"Yeah, it's dead," said the boy. He spun the mouse around by the tail to demonstrate.

"You're sure?" asked Edwin.

"Sure I'm sure. What are you? Stupid?"

Edwin felt his anger flare. The coldness that flooded his mind when he did his magic seemed harder now, a crystalline blade of ice in his forehead.

"I don't think so," said Edwin.

The mouse bit the large boy's hand. He screamed and tired to shake it off, but it held on, its teeth deeply embedded in fleshy mound beneath his thumb. "Get it off get it off!" the boy shouted. Finally he managed to shake the mouse free. It flew into the wall of the alley and bounced to the ground where it lay still.

"I thought you said it was dead," said Edwin.

The apothecary's son clutched his bleeding hand. "It was," he said through gritted teeth. "That was a dirty trick. That wasn't magic."

"Really? And is the mouse dead now?" asked Edwin.

Everyone looked at the rodent. It lay perfectly still, its back bent at an impossible angle.

"Yes," someone said.

Edwin focused on the mouse. It gave a jerk. The children stepped back in fear. The mouse opened its mouth in pain and tried to drag itself forward towards the large boy. Edwin let it crawl a couple of feet before he brought his foot down on it, snuffing its undead life.

There was a moment of shocked silence in the alley. Then Tinder spoke up.

"What else can you do?" she asked.

The dynamics in the gang of magical outcasts shifted that day. The apothecary's son came to fewer and fewer meetings. Eventually he left the group to take up work in his father's shop.

The remaining members would meet in Edwin's house when his father was at work. The halfling boy, whose name was Taiven, was able to put the babysitting tutor to sleep with a simple wave of his hands. That left the group to experiment with their abilities. Tinder's talent seemed to be evocation. She could manipulate energy, creating dazzling lights with a few simple gestures. The little girl, Cadalyn, was able to heal wounds by laying her hands on them and singing a song she had composed herself. There were others who came and went, but these three and Edwin met regularly.

The little gang would be banished whenever Edwin's beloved father had time off from his job running the city's waterworks. Edwin never gave his father an inkling of his abilities

Over time Edwin learned that his magic was always stronger, much stronger, when he was angry. When he was mad he imagined that there was a cup somewhere in his body into which the energy of his rage poured. As the cup filled, his magic became more powerful. As he became older, the cup seemed to grow within him, so no matter his rage of magic skill, it never filled to overflowing.

The little gang fell apart when Edwin's father was arrested. Edwin had been sound asleep in his bed when his father had wakened him. By candlelight his father had told him that something bad might happen the next day, and that Edwin would have to take care of himself for a while. Even the tutor would not be visiting. Edwin had not understood, but his father had shushed him and told him some secrets of the great cisterns under the city that only he, their designer, knew. Then he had tucked Edwin back into bed.

He was arrested the next day.

Three days later placards went up announcing the public execution of Searoar Hawkright the next morning.

Edwin arrived before dawn at the town square. He climbed onto ledge of a building across from the scaffold that had been erected in the center of the square the night before. An hour after dawn the square was full of people. Street vendors turned a good profit selling snacks and fruit.

At mid-morning, the crowd near the scaffold let out a cheer. The prisoner was being led forth. Edwin could not see anything until the executioner began to mount the scaffold. He was a large man, bare-chested except for a leather vest and a hood that covered his head. The hood was more traditional than effective. Everyone in the city knew the executioner was Evza Rizi, a chandler who had a shop against the south wall of city. He was reputed to be the strongest man in the Finger. He was certainly one of the largest. To see the massive man delicately form elaborate candles was a source of endless interest to the street urchins who congregated outside his shop, scrambling for wick ends.

After the executioner another figure mounted the scaffold. He was a thin, balding man with his arms bound behind him. At first Edwin did not recognize his own father. His beard had been shaved off.

The crowd let out an ungodly howl. Was it a sound of anger or outrage? Years later, when Baltrog reviewed the scene in his mind, he decided it was appetite. The crowd was braying with hunger, the hunger to see his father's blood. It was the sound of anticipation, the sound a starving animal makes when it thinks it is about to be fed.

Behind his father there was a cleric of some kind. Edwin did not recognize the man or his temple of worship. His father had never had much time for the deities. He said a few prayers, gave alms to some beggars for luck, but that was it. Why this priest would be there on the scaffold was a mystery to Edwin.

Whoever the cleric was, he came to the front of the scaffold and held up his arms for silence. Slowly the mob grew quiet. Only when they were completely silent did the man speak.

"Citizens of Seatorn," the cleric called in a booming voice. "Today we will see the punishment of the greatest criminal Seatorn has ever known."

The crowed roared its approval.

Lies, thought Edwin. Filthy lies!

When the crowd calmed down the cleric continued. He stated his name, and began a list of the prisoner's crimes. Edwin heard none of it. All he could do was focus on his father, willing him to look over at him. But his father kept his eyes fixed on the ground. All too soon the cleric finished speaking. The executioner led Edwin's father to the block, and indicated that he should kneel. Edwin's father did so without hesitation, putting his neck on the block as though it were a pillow.

The crowd fell silent.

The executioner took his position to the side of the block, hoisted his axe, and without a moment's hesitation brought it down on the Edwin's father's neck. The head fell neatly into the basket provided, while blood gushed from the severed neck.

Edwin felt he would explode.

The executioner reached into the basket and drew the head out by the hair. As custom dictated, he held it out for the crowd to see.

Edwin felt something inside of him shift. The cup of anger in his chest seemed suddenly to overflow.

The head opened its eyes and screamed silently. The crowd gasped and surged away from the scaffold. The executioner, uncertain of why the crowd had reacted so strangely, looked at the face of the head. When he did, he shouted in fear and dropped the head, which fell to the scaffold floor, its mouth gaping and eyes rolling. The cleric picked up the executioner's axe and advanced on the head. He lifted the axe and prepared to crush the thing, but then seemed to freeze for a second. When he brought the axe down he did not bring it down on the head. He brought it down on the shoulder of the executioner, inflicting a mortal blow

People started screaming. Some began running from the square, knocking over others in their fear. The crowd became an irrational mob.

The cleric continued to hack at the executioner with the axe. Guards pushed through the crowd to get to the scaffold to restrain the man. The city seemed to have gone mad.

Edwin left Seatorn that night. He walked through the darkness of the city, though the great gates, out into the surrounding fields, and headed east. He stayed on the main roads, trudging with his head down, refusing to take offered rides in carts or speak to passers-by. He came to the foothills of the mountains and continued walking. Sleeping in barns, eating almost nothing, he passed through the mountains towns and descended onto the great plains. And still he kept walking.

When he reached the far end of the plains some months later, Edwin turned south and continued his aimless trek. Six months after he had left Seatorn he arrived at a city on the edge of a desert. It was a sprawling collection of crumbling adobe buildings that shimmered in the heat: Arzandel, the self proclaimed gateway to the great sand desert. The locals called it the gateway to hell.

Years later Baltrog would realize that his decision to stop at Arzandel was based on the simple fact that he could imagine no place in the realms that was less like Seatorn. While his home city was at the end of a peninsula that thrust into a cool ocean, Arzandel lay on the edge of a vast desert. While Seatorn was a tall walled city crafted of stone and timber, Arzandel was a low, sprawling city of dried mud buildings. While Seatorn was a well-ordered city with a complex governing structure and civil service, Arzandel appeared to have no government at all. It was little better than a huge, wild trading post peopled with traders, merchants, and criminals.

It was the perfect place to start a new life.

Edwin began that life by following a noisy caravan through the main gates of the city. Once inside he was almost overwhelmed by the heat, dust, exotic smells, and noise. Street urchins darted beneath camels groaning with bags of spices. The camels would bang into stalls heaped with carpets and that would cause the stall-owners to throw arcane curses at the camel drivers who were too busy trying to find the merchants for whom they had transported the spices to care. Jugglers threw flaming hoops, street clerics declaimed strange gods, ragged pickpockets worked the crowd, and food vendors sold unrecognizable snacks from nooks in the narrow, winding streets. Every building seemed to have some sort of shop on the first floor and half-a-dozen families living on the second, most of whom threw their garbage out of the street onto the pedestrians below. All the races were to be found and every profession, though merchants and thieves seemed to predominate. Many people wore the veiled headdresses of the desert tribes, but just as many were dressed in the clothes of their homelands, wherever those may be. All the men, and most of the women, seemed to be carrying at least one weapon. The only old people were as tough and spry as the young, but with skin burned black by the desert sun and faces creased by sand-filled winds that seemed to blow continually through the crowded streets.

Edwin found a disreputable tavern and pushed his way into its dark interior. The room was filled with hard men hunched over their drinks or smoking something Edwin did not recognize from an enormous hookah in the middle of the floor. Edwin walked to the bar, ignoring the stares of clientele.

"Water," he said to the barkeep, a small, wizened woman with a large scar that ran down the right side of her face and tugged the corner of her mouth into a permanent grimace.

"You have coin?" she asked in an unrecognizable accent.

Good question, thought Edwin. He reached into his jerkin and fumbled around. He had one coin left. He placed it on the bar.

The woman picked it up, examined it carefully, and dropped it behind the bar. She pulled out a large clay cup and filled it with water from a jug. He took a sip. It was warm and slightly salty, but he drained the cup anyway.

"I have a question," he said. "Who is the most powerful sorcerer in the city?"

The barkeep eyed him suspiciously. "Why you want?" she asked.

Edwin considered his answer. "I am a student," he said.

The woman gave him a strange look. "What is student?"

"Someone who learns," said Edwin.

The concept seemed to confuse the woman. "Don't know," she said. "No like magic."

"You want a sorcerer, do you?" came a voice from behind Edwin. He turned around to find himself staring at the bare, scarred chest of a huge man. When he raised his gaze, he was surprised to find two pairs of eyes staring back at them. One pair belonged to the huge man who glared down at him, the other to a crested lizard that sat on his shoulder and darted its tongue at him.

"Yes," said Edwin. "Do you know one?"

"Do you want good magic or bad?" The giant asked.

"Bad," said Edwin. "As bad as possible."

The man considered this. He grinned. "I like that. Follow me."

Edwin had to run to keep up with the giant man. They pushed out of the bar into the heat and confusion of the street. The big man did not try to slip through the crowds or excuse himself when he came to knot of people. He simply kept walking, knocking people out of his way as though they were so many distracting insects. Edwin fell in behind him, safe in the slip-stream that the giant created as he barreled through the packed streets.

They walked for half an hour, deeper and deeper into the center of the city, down streets so labyrinthine that Edwin knew he would never be able to find his way out again. The denizens of the streets became more furtive. Exotic faces peered through shuttered windows as they passed. Fewer and fewer shops seemed to be open and the ones that were offered goods that Edwin did not recognize – pieces of dried animals and plants, bowls of toxic-looking powders, elaborate amulets, heavy rings, alchemical apparatus, wands and rods, shimmering cloaks. One tiny stall was filled entirely with insects in small wooden cages while another seemed only to sell stoppered glass bottles filled with what appeared to be shifting mist. Several stores stocked only ancient scrolls.

Finally they came to a space between two mud buildings. In it was a staircase that led up the outside of one building to its second floor.

"Up there," said Edwin's guide.

"Who's up there?" asked Edwin.

"You'll see," said the giant man. He smiled unpleasantly. His lizard darted its tongue. The man turned and disappeared around a corner of the narrow winding street.

Alone, penniless, lost in the middle of a complex, dangerous city, Edwin assessed his options. Better to climb the stairs than wander the streets, he decided.

The flight of stairs led to a wooden door set in the mud wall of the second floor. He knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He pushed it open a crack.

"Hello?" He called into the darkness beyond the door. "Is anyone home?"

A female voice answered from somewhere in the room. "Who brought you?"

"A large man with a lizard on his shoulder," said Edwin.

There was a moment of silence, then the voice said, "Come in, and shut the door behind you."

Edwin stepped into the room and shut the door. The windows were shuttered. No candles or lamps were burning so the room was very dark. Edwin could make out shadowy forms of furniture and drapes, but he could not see the person who was speaking.

"I like your hair," said the voice. Edwin's hair had turned pure white the day of his father's execution. During his travels it had grown down past his shoulders. "Why are you here?"

"I can do magic," said Edwin. "I want to learn more."

"I have no interest in what you _want_ ," said the voice. There was a long pause. "What's your name?"

Edwin thought. He had sworn that he would no longer be Edwin Hawkright, that he would be someone, some _thing_ new, but what that thing was did not yet have a name. He decided to be honest. "I don't know. I'm between names."

"Well, no-name, what are you going to do with this magic you seek?"

Again Edwin thought before replying. He could lie. He could tell the speaker in the darkness that he wanted to make money, or summon dragons, or speak to the dead. But he sensed that if he lied this unseen person would know, so he spoke the truth.

"I want enough power to destroy a city," he said. "To wipe it from the land."

There was a very long pause. Edwin began to think that the person in the darkness had left or, perhaps, fallen asleep. But he decided to remain silent. Finally a light began to glow in the middle of the room near the ceiling. It was a magic light source, a much more powerful version of the trick that Tinder used to perform, and soon it bathed the room in a shimmering blue light. Edwin could finally see his questioner. It was an ancient woman, or rather a female elf. No, Edwin realized, it was a _drow_. He had never seen one before. She had the distinctive bone structure of the elf and the pointed ears, but her skin was black, her eyes red, and her hair, like Edwin's, pure white. She sat in a divan under folds of exotic brocaded fashion as though she were cold in the stuffy heat of the room. She looked at him with those unnatural eyes and lifted one delicately arched eyebrow.

"Now _that's_ interesting," she said.

So began Edwin's apprenticeship with Quiz, a sorcerer who was five hundred years old, an age unprecedented for drow who were usually sacrificed to their spider god, Lolth, a century younger. Quiz had fled her subterranean drow conclave because her fellow high priestesses had turned on her and put her forward for sacrifice during a bout of vicious political infighting. For over a hundred years she had resided in Arzandel, running an elaborate crime network. She controlled the drug trade, prostitution, and assassination. She ran a circle of thieves who specialized in stealing magical items. She supplied victims for dark religious rites. She kidnapped, she put curses on people, she concocted sadistic poisons. Yet she rarely left her home any more, preferring to send her minions off to do her bidding while weaving her spells in privacy.

Over the years that Edwin worked for her, first as an errant boy, then as a thief, then as an assassin, and finally as a fellow magic-user, he came to discover that her increasing reclusiveness was born of guilt. She regretted not having gone to her sacrifice with dignity. She had run from her conclave rather than embrace the pains of Lolth. As her life wound down, she increasingly fell captive to self-loathing about her failure to end her life with a drow's usual flare. Out of nostalgia for her conclave she encouraged spiders to nest in her home, treating them as pets.

Edwin also came to realize that her interest in him was born of her sense of failure. She planned to turn him into a human monster that would destroy a city and inflict suffering on tens of thousands of people. By doing so, she could reassert her identity as a drow. Her dearest hope was that this deed would some day be recorded by a drow bard into a traditional murder ballad. Se wanted a song about the suffering she had unleashed through the creation of the perfect weapon: Edwin.

But he was no longer to be called Edwin. On the day she announced that he could begin studying magic, she renamed him Baltrog. She also reworked his appearance. She told him to cut his hair unfashionably short and to wear better clothes. She refined his tastes. "If you are to have exquisite taste in cruelty, you should have exquisite tastes in all things," she said, and introduced him to fine foods and wines, beautiful art, and the glories of drow literature. She told him to give himself a title. He chose "lord" because it sounded impressive but was conveniently vague. And she set about to make him a sorcerer of fantastic power and evil. She taught him that his main power was necromancy, but that he had psionic abilities that could be focused through the use of various magic devices, especially tattoos, although some races and individuals would be harder to influence than others. She taught him the use of spells to supplement his innate magic abilities. But most of all she taught him the importance of hatred.

"Savor your hatred," she told him. "Let it consume you so that nothing else matters. Everything you do, no matter how inconsequential, must be in service of your hatred. Never be compassionate, never pity. Those are emotions of weakness. Hatred is strength. Hatred is the mighty arm that swings the hammer of cruelty."

An eager student, Baltrog learned her lessons well. So well that after three years of service he realized that the next step in his self fashioning would be to take over Quiz's crime empire for himself. And that meant killing Quiz.

The day Baltrog entered her home to murder her, Quiz was ready.

"My dear Baltrog," she said from her favorite chair. "I've been expecting you."

Baltrog, his white hair cut close to his skull, his skin darkened by the desert sun, stood in the middle of the room he had entered three years early as the lost, impoverished Edwin. "Do you know why I've come?" he asked.

"Of course," said Quiz. "You've come to kill me."

"Are you going to prevent me?" asked Baltrog.

"Well," said the ancient drow. "I _am_ going to fight back."

A fireball flew out from under her robe straight at Baltrog's chest.

He brushed it aside with a wave of his hand before it could hit him. It crashed into a bookshelf. Books exploded, filling the dim room with swirling pieces of flaming paper.

Baltrog took a step closer to Quiz. She did something with her right hand and a geyser of blue liquid sprayed from the arm of her chair onto Baltrog's legs and the floor. The liquid immediately hardened into ice. Baltrog was frozen in place.

He smiled.

Quiz did something with her other hand. A massive phantom hand appeared in the space between the two antagonists. It silently opened its fingers to grasp and crush Baltrog. Just as it was about to clench shut, Baltrog flicked his fingers at it. The hand stopped, reversed, and moved towards Quiz. She began to scream as it closed around her, but it did not crush her, just held her tight in its ghostly embrace.

Baltrog muttered an incantation. The ice around his legs shattered. He moved towards Quiz.

Still struggling in the grip of the phantom hand, Quiz summoned a psionic attack. She tried to blast Baltrog's mind, to knock him down with a blow to his mind that would kill the average human. When she released the blast, Baltrog stopped in his tracks. The phantom hand released its grip and faded into nothingness. Quiz smiled. Baltrog looked as though he would tumble to the floor.

But he didn't. Instead he entered _her_ mind and what she felt took her breath away. Baltrog was an infinitely more powerful sorcerer than her. He had been hiding the extent of his powers for five years so that she would not think him a threat. And his hatred was pure, more pure than she had ever imagined.

By the time Quiz had processed this information, Baltrog's hands were around her throat.

"Surprised?" he asked.

As he crushed her throat, Quiz had time for two last thoughts. Baltrog is a monster. I have succeeded.

She went to her death happy.

###

After Baltrog killed Quiz, he looked around the room she had so rarely left. Burning pieces of papers were still floating down to the melting pool of ice. The room was filled with treasures, both riches and magical items. Baltrog could keep them, remain in Arzandel, run her criminal empire, and lead a prosperous life until some younger man killed him. Or he could take as much of Quiz's wealth as he could carry and set out on the road. Or he could simply leave Arzandel behind him and start again.

He chose the latter.

He walked out of Quiz's home, through the labyrinthine streets of the city, out of its gates, and headed north, towards the great plains and the mountains beyond.

Towards the Finger of Torn.

Chapter Eighteen

Baltrog emerged from his trance to find that Grimestoke was standing beside him, literally jumping up and down in excitement.

"Grimestoke," said Baltrog. "What ever has you so excited."

"I have them," piped the gnome. "The dwarf and Yolanthe! They're in the trap outside the door!"

Baltrog looked pleased. "Well done," he said. "Shall we go take a look?"

The gnome led the way to the door of the study. He opened it with his elaborate key. On the other side of the door there were a few feet of floor then the shaft with Baltrog and Yolanthe had fallen into.

"One second," said Grimestoke. He touched a spot on the doorframe. It made a clicking sound. "The fire trap," he explained.

"Better safe than sorry," said Baltrog.

The two stepped forward and looked over the edge of the shaft. Below them they could see the floor of the shaft, strewn with rushes. But there were no unconscious bodies lying on the floor. Instead there were two large stone blocks that had been pried from the wall of the shaft where the gas vent had been.

"It's not possible," said the gnome. He grabbed a candle from the wall and held it over the shaft to provide more illumination. There were no bodies to be seen.

"Where does that hole lead?" asked Baltrog, his voice unnaturally calm.

"Into a chamber beside my work area," said Grimestoke. "That's where I make the gas."

"And, if I recall correctly," said Baltrog calmly, "The weapons."

The blood rushed from the gnome's face.

"I think," said Baltrog calmly, "That you should sound the alarm and recapture these people. Don't you?"

The gnome nodded his head and began to fiddle with the door lock. Something made a clicking noise and the trap door slowly shut with the sound of grinding stone. As soon as it was in place the gnome started down the stairs.

"And Grimey," said Baltrog before the gnome disappeared. "I'm not happy."

The gnome's face became even paler.

###

"Get ready," said Yolanthe.

Voltag had made short work of the cheap mortar holding the block below the gas vent and they had squeezed through the opening he made when the block was pried loose. They landed in a small room cluttered with broken glass vials, metal tubing, and beakers of strangely coloured liquids. A halfling lay dead on the floor, Yolanthe's arrow in his eye. Now they stood beside the door to the chamber, preparing to kick it down. Voltag had his axe ready and Yolanthe had an arrow cocked.

"Right," said Voltag. "Me first, you shoot over my head."

He kicked the door in and jumped into the room. It was a large laboratory filled with beakers, vials, books, astrolabs, dried animal parts, strange stones, brightly coloured powders, and countless machines. But there was no one guarding it.

"Empty," said Voltag.

"Grimestoke is very protective of work," said Yolanthe. "Look for anything we can use."

They began to ransack the room. Voltag took special care to knock over and break as many machines as he could.

"Weapons," said Yolanthe. She had opened a large storage cabinet to find it filled with strange weapons. Her attention was immediately drawn to the arrows. There were dozens of them, all different, all unusual in some way or another. Some had strange fletching made of bizarre materials or attached to the arrow shaft in unusual patterns. Other had strange points, some large and apparently made of crystal, others made of metal, still others of materials Yolanthe did not recognize. Rather than try to sort through them she took them all.

Voltag stood beside her. "Anything I can use?" he asked.

"I don't know," Yolanthe replied. They scanned the racks of odd weapons. There were spears, maces, swords, halberds, chain whips, and weapons that did not have names. Most of them were covered in complex machinery, gears and levers that served functions that neither of them could guess. Voltag focused on a small collection of battle axes.

"Bunch of silly toys," he sneered.

"Maybe," said Yolanthe. "But I recognize this."

She held up a glass vial of a blue liquid. It had a stopper with a long stem on its underside that dipped into the liquid.

"Dab this on the blade of you axe," she said. "But don't get any on your hands."

"Will it hurt the metal?" Voltag asked.

"No. It will just make it pretty."

As Voltag gingerly wiped the blue liquid on the curved blade of his axe, Yolanthe continued to search the laboratory. She found and pocketed a set of keys, a scroll with a map on it, and a sheaf of notes that had the word "Important!" written on the top page.

There were running footsteps outside the laboratory's main door.

"They're here," said Voltag, putting away the vial and hefting his axe.

"Right," said Yolanthe, nocking the first arrow she drew from her quiver, one of Grimestoke's strange creations.

"Do we wait for them to come in, or do we go after them?" asked the dwarf.

"Let's wait," replied Yolanthe.

The running footsteps of at least six people came to a stop just beyond the heavy wooden door. Voltag and Yolanthe could hear a whispered conference on the other side.

"I'm getting bored," growled Voltag.

As if in response to his comment, the door began to open slowly. Before it was more than a few inches open, Yolanthe let the arrow fly. It streaked across the laboratory, through the narrow crack of the open door and into the hallway beyond where it exploded. The blast blew the door inward off its hinges and sent slivers of wood and laboratory equipment throughout the room. Yolanthe ducked behind a table while Voltag threw himself to the floor.

When the dust and smoke had settled the two fighters climbed to their feet and assessed the damage. The explosive arrow had killed everyone in the hallway. Body parts were scattered on the floor and blood covered the wall. The laboratory was totally destroyed. What was left of the door had crashed into the far wall of the room.

"Not bad," admitted Voltag.

"Next time I'll use a big one," said Yolanthe.

Without another word they ran from the laboratory, stepping over the mounds of leaking flesh that had once been guards, and turned left down the corridor.

"Do you know your way?" asked Voltag as they ran.

"We're headed for the dungeon," said Yolanthe. "Beyond that there's a staircase. There will be guards."

"Right," said Voltag. "I lead."

The dwarf jogged ahead of the half-elf. He held his axe in both hands, horizontal across his chest, the blade pointed down so that it acted as a shield across his upper body. Its effectiveness was proven as soon as he rounded the first corner for an orc stepped out and jabbed at his chest with a halberd. The weapon broke against the heavy metal of the axe blade. Before the orc could understand what had happened the axe swung up through his neck. Voltag ran on without missing a stride but Yolanthe had to jump over the orc's head, the face of which registered profound surprise.

The corridor ahead of them had two doors set into the right-side wall and a door of iron bars at the end.

"Straight ahead," said Yolanthe, feet behind the dwarf.

The dwarf barreled past the first closed door on his right without a second glance. But as Yolanthe passed the door it swung open and an orc guard lurched out of it. Yolanthe heard the door open behind her. She jumped lightly in the air, spinning around. Before she had turned 180 degrees she had nocked an arrow in her bow. When she reached 180 degrees she let the arrow fly into the throat of the heavily armed orc. When she landed she was again facing forward and running behind the dwarf. She had not lost any distance.

The next door in the corridor burst open before either of the fighters reached it. An orc and some unrecognizable humanoid creature jumped into the hallway and stood shoulder to shoulder blocking the way. Both were armed with spears that they held defensively directed at the charging escapees. Both wore heavy breastplates and helmets.

"Right," shouted Voltag over his shoulder.

"Left," replied Yolanthe.

The dwarf was almost on the spear point of the monster on the right side of the corridor when he swung his axe, the blade held broadside, against the spear forcing it against the wall of the corridor. Voltag used the momentum to spin around while dropping to his haunches. His axe swung in a vicious arc through the legs of the monster. Voltag, his momentum slowed a bit, jumped up and unto the upper body of the creature. It fell off its severed legs onto its back where it thrashed in agony as it bled to death. The two legs continued to stand in the corridor.

The other creature was so astounded by the fate of its colleague that it turned its head to gape, allowing Yolanthe a clear shot through the lattice work on the side of its helmet. The half-elf ranger put an arrow through its ear with such force that it came part way out of the other. The creature died so quickly that it did not fall until Yolanthe had run past it.

Voltag ran to the door of iron bars and shook it.

"It's locked," he said.

"Try the axe," Yolanthe said. "Get it up to speed."

Casting her a suspicious glance, Voltag began to swing his axe in front of him in a figure-eight pattern. Just when it got fast enough to begin to whistle, the blue liquid that he had smeared on the blade began to leave trails of blue flame in the air.

"By Moradin's eye teeth," said the dwarf behind a swirling knot of blue light.

"Now try the bars," said Yolanthe.

Voltag stepped forward, gingerly bringing the speeding blade into contact with the iron bars. He braced himself for the impact of steel hitting iron, but instead found himself stepping back as the irons bars tumbled into bits at his feet.

He slowed the axe down to a stop and looked at the door. The axe blade had cut through the bars as though they were paper. A large figure-eight shaped hole was neatly cut into them.

"Not a bad trick," admitted Voltag.

"We'll talk about it later," said Yolanthe. She jumped ahead of the amazed dwarf, through the hole in the bars, and into Grimestoke's torture chamber.

It was a large room with a dozen cells opening into it. Each of the cells was behind an iron bar door. The central room was dominated by instruments of torture. There were racks, iron maidens, thumbscrews, various hammers, tongs, and knives. There was also a large incredibly complicated machine that neither Voltag nor Yolanthe recognized. The cells all contained filthy heaps of hay and small bowls of water.

"Help!"

Voltag and Yolanthe spun in the direction of the sound. It had come from one of the cells. They could see no one.

"Help,"came the weak voice again.

Their weapons ready, the dwarf and half-elf approached one of the cells. Lying in a nest of hay was a small man, a halfling. His clothes were rags and his slight frame so emaciated that he appeared more bones than flesh. His body was covered in wounds, many of them leaking fluids. One leg and one arm were bent at impossible angles. He weakly raised his head as the two approached.

"Help me," he said.

Yolanthe began to search the room for keys while Voltag spoke to the man. "Who are you?" he asked.

The question seemed to confuse the man. Finally he answered, "My name is Carl. I can't remember the rest."

"Why are you here?" asked the dwarf.

"I came from Seatorn. A diplomat," said the halfling, waving his hand weakly.

Yolanthe appeared with a large key. She opened the cell door and knelt down beside the halfling. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"Torture," said the little man. "He tortured me. All the others are dead." He waved at the empty cells. "He used that machine."

Voltag and Yolanthe followed his gaze to the complicated machine that stood in one corner of the dungeon. It seemed to be a combination of a rack, iron maiden, and press.

"Can we help you?" asked the dwarf.

The little man whispered something.

"Louder, man," said Voltag.

The little man gestured for the dwarf to bring his ear closer. Voltag bent down and listened, then stood up, grim-faced.

"What does he want?" asked Yolanthe.

"He wants me to kill him," said the dwarf.

Voltag and Yolanthe looked at each other. She nodded yes.

"I've never killed a helpless man," said Voltag. "My clan does not allow it."

"Please," gasped Carl.

Voltag turned towards the wall. When he turned around again his face was betrayed no emotion, though his eyes were unnaturally bright.

"Don't watch," he said to Yolanthe.

She walked to the far end of the dungeon and studied the bars of one of the cages. She heard the dwarf whisper something. Then she heard the blade of his axe sweep through the air.

A few seconds later Voltag spoke. "Do the machine," he said.

Yolanthe turned around to see the dwarf standing by the door leading out of the dungeon. He was gripping the handle of his axe so tightly that his knuckles were white. His eyes, almost invisible beneath his beard and eyebrows, shone with a dark intensity that Yolanthe found frightening.

She pulled one of Grimestoke's more elaborate arrows from her quiver and fired it at the machine. The arrowhead shattered on contact, spraying a liquid over the machine. No sooner did the liquid touch the metal that it began to rust and crumble. As the dwarf and half-elf watched, the machine began to fall apart. Within minutes it was a pile of red dust and metal flakes on the dungeon floor.

"Is this the way?" asked Voltag, jerking his head at the doorway he stood beside.

"Yes," she said. "It leads up to the main entry hall. There's a door there to the main hall. Most of the rest of the building branches off from the hall."

"Will he be there?" asked the dwarf.

"He must be," she replied.

"Don't get in front of me," said Voltag.

The dwarf began to breath deeply. Soon his entire body was rocking with the force of the breaths. Just when Yolanthe thought he might pass out from hyperventilating the dwarf raised his axe above his head and roared. The sound was part war cry, part animal howl. She could not imagine how the small man made such a loud noise. Yolanthe was about to put her hands over her ears when the noise stopped. Before she could gather her breath the dwarf was charging up the stairs.

Chapter Nineteen

The Lord Baltrog had returned to his study to look over his map of Seatorn. He had memorized the map many years ago, but whenever he was perturbed he would pull it out again and let his eye wander over it. The ritual soothed him. Let Grimestoke chase down that ridiculous dwarf and the half-elf. It was his fault they were in the building. He would study his map.

Seatorn was at the end of the Finger of Torn, the finger _tip_ as the locals liked to say. The Finger narrowed to a peninsula about a mile across just where Seatorn began. That mile was divided from the rest of the peninsula by the Wall of Seatorn, a huge structure that ran from the shore on the north to the shore on the south, bending at two points so that the wall curved inward, towards the ocean. The Wall was a defensive structure, but it was also a huge building. It was filled with municipal offices, courtrooms, guildhalls, and even apartments. All these dwellings faced the city side of the wall. Arriving from the Finger, the Wall appeared to be just that: a blank wall some four stories high. But from inside the city, the wall looked like a rookery that seabirds made on cliffs. It was adorned with elaborate doors, crystal windows, tapestries, flags, and pendants.

There was only one gate through the Wall, and it was so heavily guarded that no one in the city's history had every tried to assault it.

Inside the Wall, the city filled the peninsula. Immediately under the shadow of the wall was an upscale area of fine houses. Members of the civil service and especially successful merchants lived there to be close to the municipal affairs being conducted in the Wall. The local population called the area "The Shade." To live in the Shade of the Wall was the dream of every upwardly mobile citizen.

Spreading west from the Wall were a series of neighborhoods, some good, some indifferent, a few bad. Shop Street contained the majority of the merchant activity. The artisans lived in a few blocks near the north shore called the Narrows. South of the Narrows was the public square which housed a weekly market.

Baltrog had grown up where Shop Street met the square. His father had had a fine house on the corner of Shop Street and North Corner Lane. Baltrog wondered if the building was still standing. He had heard that Seatorn was so prosperous these days that any building more than fifty years old was torn down and replaced with something taller.

Finally the city ended at the harbor, the glory of Seatorn. Thanks to a small archipelago of rocky islands – "The Necklace" - that stretched in a curve from the southern edge of the harbor out into the sea and curved northward, the harbor was protected from the worst ocean storms. As a result Seatorn was the busiest port on the coast. And the harbor was lined with docks, warehouses, and ship builders. It bustled with activity every hour of the day and most hours of the night.

Baltrog's survey of the map was almost complete, but he had saved one area for last. Hard against the Wall, at the south end of the Shade, was a strange anomaly in the street grid. The Wall had two wings that each extended into the city about two blocks. The wings were angled so that they approached each other forming a triangle with the Wall. In that strange space was Seatorn's cemetery. Because it was bound in by the walls of the city, its space was severely limited and highly prized. The best families of the city bought and traded the few prime plots in the cemetery as though they were venture stocks in the spice trade. Baltrog's father's family had owned one of the prime lots in that space. On it sat a beautiful marble mausoleum. But when his father was murdered, the city had thrown his mutilated body into the city garbage heap. The city fathers, in their wisdom, declared that a monster such as Baltrog's father could never lie within the city walls. Baltrog heard, before he left the city, that his family's plot had been confiscated by the city and auctioned off to a family of rich cloth traders.

Baltrog toyed with the idea of visiting that family. Or perhaps having some fun with their departed loved ones that now lay in his family's mausoleum.

His reverie was cut short by a sound, the bellow of someone in pain, or perhaps great anger, coming from somewhere near the main hall.

Chapter Twenty

Yolanthe could not believe how fast the dwarf was running. He seemed to have turned himself into a human battering ram, charging through the halls and killing any guard who happened to be in his path without breaking stride. She had to run at full speed to keep up with him.

They came to a huge double door.

"Main hall," shouted Yolanthe.

Voltag did not pause. He ran his shoulder into the doors, flinging them open and revealing a room full of guards and servants. They all looked up in surprise. The dwarf had caught most of them in the process of arming themselves to pursue the escapees. Some were wearing armor, most were not, but all had weapons within reach.

At the far end of the room, standing on a table to direct the guards, was Grimestoke. He looked up in alarm as the dwarf and half-elf burst into the room. Before he could yell a command, the dwarf began attacking.

Voltag rushed at the group of guards nearest the door. As he ran he brought his axe up to speed. By the time he reached the startled guards the axe was leaving trails of blue light in the air. When the axe cleaved through the first guard Voltag realized that as long at the blue liquid lasted he would not have to plan his axe swings to avoid objects that could slow down the blade. The treated axe cut through flesh, steel, and wood with equal speed. He could just swing at anything that moved.

The thought pleased him.

Within seconds Voltag stood at the center of a ball of slicing blue light that ate everything it touched. Body parts, weapons, armor, furniture, all dissolved before the endless motion of the axe. The joy of the destruction was so great that Voltag found himself singing the drinking song that old Slaughter used to hum under his breath during practice. He sang it while moving forward, cutting through flesh, steel, and wood. His only conscious thought was that he must move down the room, towards the Grimestoke.

Towards Baltrog.

###

Grimestoke's jaw dropped when he saw the dwarf wade into a group of guards. His axe blade was glowing blue! The filthy dwarf had stolen one of his best experiments and was using it against Baltrog's own guards! This couldn't be!

His view was momentarily blocked by a bugbear guard who stood to roar defiance at the intruders. The monster's roar was cut short. It spun around to face Grimestoke and the gnome could see why. An arrow was protruding from the creature's open mouth. When the monster slumped onto the table Grimestoke saw Yolanthe standing in the doorway of the hall. She was aiming an arrow at him.

Grimestoke threw himself on the table top just as Yolanthe released her arrow. He felt it pierce the air just above his head as he fell forward. He rolled to the side and fell off the table, hitting the floor hard. As he pulled himself up on his hands and knees, another guard fell beside him grabbing at an arrow that stuck from his chest. Grimestoke began to crawl as fast as he could under the table towards the stairs at the end of the hall. All the while he could hear the destruction that the dwarf was causing. Wood shattered, pieces of armor flew in the air and clattered to the ground, bodies exploded in wet splashes, the dying moaned or screamed.

If he could make it to the end of the hall without standing up and offering Yolanthe a clear shot, he might be able to make it up the tower. And then what? Climb to the top and hope that Baltrog would see him and rescue him. It was not much of a plan but it was better than facing certain death in the hall.

Grimacing with the effort, the gnome crawled under tables and around bodies towards the entrance of the tower. The screams of the guards, the sound of metal and flesh crashing to the floor, and the terrifying whisper of arrows filled his ears. More than once splashes of blood rained down on him and once a hand, still clutching a mace, crashed on the floor in front of him. But he was almost there. The entrance to the tower was only some ten feet away.

But there was no cover between the table he was hunkered under and the doorway. He'd have to run for it.

He waited until the screams reached a climax then jumped to his feet and bolted for the entrance. Ten feet. Eight. Five. The dwarf and half-elf were talking to each other. Two feet.

He tripped just before the entrance and stumbled but did not fall. That stumble saved his life as the arrow aimed at his back missed its mark and pierced his hand. He screamed as he leapt into the entrance of the tower and began to pound his way up the circular staircase.

###

Voltag felt his axe slowing down. The blue potion was wearing off and now he felt resistance when the blade passed through anything besides flesh. He quickly adapted his technique back to the classic Grimm style, aiming the axe only for parts of the body that it would pass through unimpeded. Since most of the creatures in the room had already been killed, the change in technique did not slow him down.

The last remaining guards, many of them who were now trying to crawl out of the hall's windows, simply wanted to avoid the dwarf. Nothing had prepared them for this machine of death that had invaded the hall. Some broke and ran for the doors, only to be shot in the back with Yolanthe's arrows. One orc tried to climb a tapestry to get to a window only to be shot in the back of the neck. As he fell his foot caught in a tear in the tapestry and he found himself hanging upside down by one foot. Another arrow through his heart killed him instantly, but he continued to hang upside like some macabre decoration.

When Voltag could no longer find bodies to dismember, he slowed his axe to a stop. He was covered in blood.

"Where now?" he shouted to Yolanthe who had climbed a table to get a clear shot at the retreating Grimestoke.

"The stairs," she shouted, firing off an arrow at the retreating back of the gnome. Grimestoke was just turning the corner of the circular staircase when she fired. The arrow caught the little man in the hand, piercing it. Yolanthe's felt a flood of pleasure at the creature's scream.

"Let's go," said Voltag charging towards the stairs.

Yolanthe was right behind him. They hit the stairs running. They were stone, circular stairs, just like the ones that had contained the trap that caught them earlier, but Voltag was too angry to be cautious. He could hear the gnome whimpering just ahead of him on the upwardly circling stairs and his lust for blood blinded him to anything else. He heard a door slam. He ran all the faster.

The stairs ended in a small cul-de-sac that had a set up wooden stairs leading up to a trap door set in the ceiling.

"What's behind that?" asked Voltag.

"The top of the tower," said Yolanthe. "There's no where to go."

"Good," said Voltag.

He climbed the stairs and attacked the trap door above his head with the axe. It burst open on the second blow. Voltag charged up the last few stairs to find himself on the top of the tower, a circular platform some fifty feet across. There was no railing or lip at the edge of the platform. There was nowhere anyone could hide.

But Grimestoke was not on the platform.

"Where is he?" asked the dwarf.

"I don't know," said Yolanthe catching up with him. "He must be here somewhere. There's no other way up or down."

Voltag walked to the edge of the platform. The tower walls met the platform at a 90 degree angle. There was no ledge or handhold on the wall that he could see. There was no way anyone could climb down the tower unless he was part lizard. He guessed the drop to the courtyard below was at least two hundred feet.

The dwarf tugged at his beard in frustration. "Something's not right," he said. "We must have missed a door."

Voltag scanned the courtyard of the castle. Guards were running around in a blind panic, many of them abandoning their weapons and fleeing. On the nearest tower he could make out a guard still at his post, but even if the man had a good bow he would not be likely to hit them from this distance. It was at least 300 yards. The last tower was even farther away, and there was no one on its platform. There was, however, someone watching him through a window in that tower. Though it was far away and glass of the window distorted the image, Voltag recognized the figure as Baltrog.

"I see him!" he shouted to Yolanthe.

When Yolanthe did not reply, Voltag looked over at her. She was standing in the middle of the platform with her mouth slightly open and her eyes glazed. She took a few steps towards the edge of the platform and Voltag thought that she was going to jump off the tower. Instead she took her quiver of arrows and hurled it off the edge. Then she turned to the dwarf with a panicked look and said, "He's . . . "

Before she could finish the sentence she doubled over at the waist and grabbed her head with both hands. She held that posture for a several seconds, then slowly straightened up.

Her posture had changed. The muscles of her face were pulled into an unnatural smile. When the half-elf spoke, the timber of her voice was lower and the rhythm of her speech entirely different.

"Oh, you've caused me some heartache," said Yolanthe. "Yes, little man, a great deal of heartache. And now the clever little Yolanthe has thrown her arrows away. What a brave thing she is. She did that to protect you, you know? She knows I would have used her remarkable skills to put a dozen arrows through your throat."

"Get out of her," growled Voltag.

"In a second," said Yolanthe. "But first you must tell me, why have you been making so much trouble for me?"

"I promised I would kill you," said the dwarf.

"That's it? A promise?" asked the voice that came from Yolanthe's mouth.

"At first, yes," said the dwarf. "But now I'll do it for pleasure."

"Good line," said the voice. "You could be in one of those stage plays as the noble hero. Very romantic. Even dashing. But in real life, noble heroes don't triumph. They die. But first their hearts are broken. Time for me to give Yolanthe back to Yolanthe. Goodbye."

Yolanthe turned and walked to the edge of the tower. She lifted one leg out over space, and Baltrog left her. Made dizzy by the transition, she fell over the edge.

"No!" shouted the dwarf.

He charged forward and threw himself off the edge of the tower. In midair he twisted and swung his axe overhead with his right hand while at the same time grabbing for Yolanthe with his left. The bottom of the axe blade caught on the edge of the platform just as his left hand caught hold of Yolanthe's leg. The jerk of her weight pulled his right hand free of the axe handle and he fell four inches before the leather thong attached to its base snapped tight around his wrist.

They hung there – Yolanthe held by the foot by Volag, who hung by his wrist to a strap in the handle of an axe hooked on the edge of a tower. Voltag felt as though he were being ripped in two.

"How are we doing?" asked Yolanthe, her head facing the ground.

"Least it's not raining," said Voltag between gritted teeth.

"That's the first joke I've heard you made," said Yolanthe.

"Maybe the last," said Voltag. He gave out a roar of pain. "Think of something," he shouted.

Yolanthe, trying not to twist so much that Voltag would lose his grip, carefully slid her bow off her shoulder. She brought it up to her chest, and contracting her abdominal muscles as hard as she could, she began to curl her body up towards Voltag. When she was in a half-curled position, she hooked the bow over the dwarf's head and used it to pull herself up across Voltag's body. As soon as she was upright she grabbed the axe handle with her right hand and Voltag let go of her foot.

They hung, both grasping the axe with one hand, their bodies pressed together.

"Can you bring your other hand to the loop?" Yolanthe asked.

Voltag grunted with the effort of bringing his arm up, but managed it. He linked both hands through the loop.

"Good. Now hang on tight," Yolanthe said. She raised a foot, hooked her toe in Voltag's belt, and using it as a step levered herself higher. She grabbed the axe handle just below the blade.

"One last step," she said through gritted teeth. She raised her foot again, and slid it between Voltag's arms onto the top of his head. As the dwarf cursed and grunted, she used his head as a step to propel herself just high enough to grasp the edge of the tower with one hand. She found a toehold on the wall, and pulled herself up onto the tower platform. She collapsed on her back.

"A bit of help," said Voltag.

Yolanthe jumped up. She looked across at the tower that contained Baltrog's study. There was no one in the window. Since they had fallen over the edge of the platform farthest from where he had watched, he probably assumed they were already dead. She looked over the edge of the platform. Voltag did not have the leverage or strength to pull himself higher. He hung there, his hands in the axe handle's loops, her bow around his neck.

She lay down and tried to reach her arm to him.

"Too heavy," grunted Voltag.

He was right. Even if she could reach his hand, she would never be able to pull him up. And since there was nothing she could anchor herself to on the platform his weight would pull her off.

Yolanthe heard footsteps coming up the stairs behind her.

"Make noise," she whispered to the dwarf. She ran to the far side of the shattered trap door, drew her knife, and hunkered down.

Make noise? Thought Voltag. Madness, but he had nothing else to do except feel his hands go numb. He began to chant a tuneless song.

A bugbear wearing a visored helmet poked its head though the trap door. Yolanthe focused her attention on the back of its head. The monster was looking at the axe blade hooked on the platform and, no doubt, wondering about the strange sounds that were coming from its direction. Before emerging onto the platform, however, it slowly scanned the tower platform. Yolanthe moved swiftly and silently in a crouch so that the back of the creature's head was always facing her. The bugbear surveyed the entire platform and never saw her.

Grunting with satisfaction the guard climbed onto the platform and made its way towards the axe blade. Yolanthe crept behind it, looking for a place to insert her dagger. The monster wore a hauberk, a great gown of chainmail that extended to its knees. All its vital organs were covered. If it were to turn around she might go for its throat but she would have to jump to hit the target and the opening below its helmet's visor was probably very small. She might be able to pierce its eye, but that was also a small target and she could not be sure her dagger would reach all the way to its brain. Half-blinded the beast might knock her off the platform.

The monster stopped in its tracks. Had it heard her? No. But it probably smelled her. Before it could turn around Yolanthe noticed the back of the monster's neck. The helmet rode high on the back of the creature's misshapen head. There was a gap between it and the hauberk. She grasped her dagger in both hands, lifted it over her head, and jumped at the creature's back. She drove the dagger into the vertebrae just below the neck and jumped back, leaving the dagger embedded.

The creature let out a howl and fell to the ground. It twitched and frothed but could not control its legs or arms. Yolanthe had severed its spinal cord, paralyzing it from the neck down.

"What's the noise?" shouted Voltag.

"A little visitor," replied Yolanthe. "Hang on."

"Hang on?" muttered the dwarf. "What else might I do?"

Yolanthe unwound the spider silk rope from her waist and tied one end to the bugbear. The creature looked at her with terrified eyes as it struggled to understand what was happening to it. Yolanthe took the other end of the rope and dangled it off the edge of the platform in front of Voltag.

"Grab the end of the rope," she said.

"Can't," replied the dwarf. "Hands are numb."

Yolanthe could see that the dwarf's hand, intertwined in the rope loop at the end of the axe handle, were almost blue.

"Right," she said. "Don't let go of the axe."

She pulled the rope back up, grabbed its end, and lay flat on the platform with her head over the edge. She reached down and tied the end of the rope to the handle of the axe just below the blade.

"Get ready," she said.

She got to her feet and turned to the bugbear. The creature was rolling his eyes and trying to say something. Yolanthe bent down and rolled the bugbear over, away from the edge of the platform where Voltag was hanging. The monster was heavy, all the more heavy for its armor, and by the time Yolanthe had flipped him a few times she was exhausted. But the monster was now at the edge of the platform. It rolled its eyes in terror and tried to plea for its life. Yolanthe rolled it on its side, pulled the knife from its neck, then shoved the monster over the edge.

The creature fell, bouncing off the side of the tower and unspooling the rope behind it. When it was more than half way to the ground the rope drew taut and Voltag was pulled over the far edge of the tower and onto the platform. Dragged on his stomach by the axe, he slid across the platform towards Yolanthe and the edge that the bugbear had gone over.

"Let go!" shouted Yolanthe as the dwarf approached her.

"My axe!" he shouted. "Cut the rope!"

Yolanthe held her dagger to the rope that streaked by her, getting ready to cut. The rope was the most valuable thing she owned, the only gift she had from her father. Spun from one continuous line of spider silk, it would never be the same if it were cut it. She hesitated.

Voltag was feet away from the edge of the platform, bellowing in pain as he was dragged across the stone platform.

"Now!" he bellowed.

Yolanthe lowered the blade towards the moving rope just as a sickening sound of metal and flesh came from the bottom of the tower. The rope stopped moving, but Voltag continued to slide forward under his own momentum. He came to a stop with his axe, arms, and head over the edge of the tower. He found himself looking at the shattered body of the bugbear in the courtyard below. Other guards were running in confusion away from the body, out of the castle.

Voltag slowly got to his feet. He rubbed his numb hands.

"Couldn't cut the rope?" he asked Yolanthe.

"Couldn't let go of the axe?" she asked back.

They smiled grimly at each other.

"What now?" asked Baltrog.

"We search the castle, then go to Seatorn," said Yolanthe.

Chapter Twenty-one

Running up the tower stairs may have been the worst moments in Grimestoke's life. Although he was inordinately fond of inflicting pain on others, he had a very low threshold for pain himself. The wound Yolanthe's arrow had made in his hand was so excruciating he could hardly see. And yet he had to run from that mad dwarf. So he had scampered up the stairs as fast as he could, formulating a plan as he went. When he came to the cul-de-sac he pushed open the trap door and let it fall shut again. Then he ran down the wooden stairs, crawled between two steps, and pushed himself into the shadows. He reached into his jerkin and pulled out one a potion he had stolen from a travelling merchant some months ago. It promised invisibility. He drank the foul liquid off and then watched as his hands faded. He did not turn completely invisible, but close enough. He was translucent, and that might be enough.

He took a deep breath and sat perfectly still as the dwarf bounded up the stairs and shattered the trap door. The half-elf had bounded after him. As soon as they were both on the platform, he slid out between the stairs and tiptoed down the steps of the tower. He made his way gingerly through the great hall, now a slaughterhouse, and finally to Baltrog's study. When he entered he found the sorcerer just coming out of one of his trances.

"They're on the tower!" he shouted

"No, Grimestoke," said Baltrog calmly. "She's dead. He may have jumped after her. I don't know and don't particularly care since it's time to leave anyway."

He looked down at his factotum. "You've hurt your hand," he observed.

"Yes," said Grimestoke. Now that he was safe he was feeling the pain more.

"Good," said Baltrog. "Consider it a chastisement for your sloppy work today. Now pack the augmenter and meet me at the pier in a few minutes. We're going on a little boat ride."

"To Seatorn?" Grimestoke asked.

"Seatorn is tomorrow," said Baltrog. "Tonight we're visiting a friend."

###

Voltag and Yolanthe spent an hour searching the castle, beginning in the rooms off the great hall and finally working their way back to Baltrog's study. They were slowed down by a few surviving guards. Most of them ran when they saw the two fighters, but a few put up a token resistance. They died quickly. Yolanthe retrieved her arrows and untied the rope from the shattered body of the bugbear. Voltag found another bottle of the blue liquid that had made his axe blade invulnerable and stashed it in his jerkin.

Baltrog's study was deserted. They ransacked the place looking for clues to Baltrog's whereabouts, but could only find coded correspondence and maps. Yolanthe drew the dwarf's attention to the largest map.

"This is Seatorn," she explained. "This is the Wall. It really is invulnerable."

"Looks it," agreed Voltag.

"Then what is he going to do?" Yolanthe asked.

"He's mad. Might do anything," said Voltag. "We should get to Seatorn quickly."

The two started out of the study when the dwarf noticed a chest on the floor. Without thinking, he opened it. It contained gold.

"By Moradin's kneecaps!" said Voltag. "He left without his treasure. He's truly mad."

Yolanthe peered into the chest. "Baltrog loves fine food and wine. He loves beautiful clothes and objects, but he has never been driven by money. For him, money was just another form of power. Like magic. Since he left this money, he must have all the power he needs."

"To destroy Seatorn?"

"To destroy Seatorn."

"Well," said Voltag, "finders keepers." He scooped as much gold as he could fit into his jerkin, and followed Yolanthe out of the castle.

###

Baltrog and Grimestoke walked over treacherous wet rocks, sprayed again and again by the salt water of the waves that crashed a few feet from their path. It was a moonless and windy night, a night in which no one sane would walk the dangerous shoreline west of Tzanasport. Torches would be blown out, the total darkness made tripping a certainty, and errant waves had been known to wash the unwary out to sea. But on the human and gnome walked, their way lit by the green glow of a light spell that Baltrog had cast around their bodies.

"Much farther?" asked the gnome, gasping for breath as he leapt from rock to rock. His injured hand throbbed with every heartbeat.

"Not tired, are we?" asked Baltrog. "Nothing like a bracing seaside walk at midnight to get the blood flowing."

Their path led them between the sea and a mass of great boulders. At high tide the ocean would cover half of those rocks.

Baltrog pointed to a dark crevice between two of the giant boulders.

"We're here," he said, and stepped into the space.

Grimestoke followed, muttering to himself and rubbing the salt spray from his eyes while protecting his injured hand. When a jet of salt water splashed on the wound he let out a small cry of pain.

The green light showed that the crevice was not simply a space between two boulders that had crashed together, but the entry to a sea cave that extended far back from the shore. The floor was of wet sand, dotted with starfish and small crabs that scurried out of his way. The narrow rock walls were encrusted with barnacles and mussels that would rip the skin if one brushed against them. The claustrophobic space smelled of dead fish and salt.

Up ahead a different sort of light flickered. The light of fire.

Following behind Baltrog, Grimestoke found himself entering a larger space, a cave, perhaps some twenty feet round. Torches were stuck in crevasses in the wall. There was an inch of seawater on the floor and more water dripped from the ceiling. Standing in the middle of room, facing Baltrog, was a tall figure completely covered in a long cloak and hood.

"You're late," said the figure in a ragged voice.

"I think not," said Baltrog casually. "Perhaps your hourglass is full of water." He surveyed the room. "Nice place," he said.

"Who is this?" asked the figure, raising an arm at Grimestoke.

"Oh yes, so rude of me," said Baltrog. "This is my factotum, Grimestoke. Been with me for years. Grimestoke, mee , uh, well I don't think you ever gave me your name."

"I have no name," said the man. "I am my master's slave."

The cloaked form did not extend a hand or bow, so Grimestoke just ducked his head and muttered, "Charmed, I'm sure," under his breath.

"Yes, well," said Baltrog, "This, uh, good master slave here is going to help us with the final stage of our little plan, the isolation of Seatorn," said Baltrog.

"That remains to be seen," said the cloaked figure.

"True," said Baltrog, "So enough with the pleasantries. What I am asking of your master is a complete blockade of Seatorn. No ships go in, no ships go out. Indeed, if all the ships that are presently at anchor in the port were destroyed, well so much the better."

"In return?" asked the figure.

"In return your master gets the entire population of Seatorn. Every one of them. And all the treasures of the richest city on the western coast."

"My master has slaves. My master has treasure," said the man.

"Ah, but does he have control of others of his kind?" asked Baltrog.

The figure tilted its hooded head towards Baltrog.

"Deep in the vaults of the civic hall of Seatorn, there is a wand," explained Baltrog. "This wand has been the project of the city's magic guild for almost 200 years now. Its intended purpose is to control your master's kind, or at least the young and inexperienced of his kind," Baltrog paused, "He is a 'he,' isn't he?"

The man did not answer so Baltrog continued. "Whatever the case, as you can imagine the trading community of Seatorn are deeply afraid of your master's kind, hence this project which, I'm told, is nearing completion. Now, I'm sure your master is much too powerful to be controlled by such a toy, but it might inconvenience him having rivals summoned to the Seatorn area, swimming around in _his_ sea. On the other hand, he might find it very amusing to wield such a power himself. Why, he could turn rivals into slaves. He could destroy interlopers. He could build an empire."

The hooded figure stood still for a moment.

"I will ask my master," he said finally.

"And when might we expect an answer?" asked Baltrog.

"One hour," he said. "Wait."

He turned his back on the Baltrog and Grimestoke and shrugged off his robe. The gnome suppressed a gasp when the man's flesh was exposed. He was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, but his skin was a sickly pale white as though it had never been exposed to the sun. His back and legs were covered with oval scars, puckerings of the skin that were red and raw at their centers. And there was something wrong with his neck. Flaps of extra skin seem to hang on either side of it, just above his shoulders.

The man muttered something in a language that Grimestoke had never heard, and raised his hands towards the ceiling. He muttered something again, and his arms stretched, the flesh pulling like rubber, another two feet until the man's palms were touching the ceiling. He muttered something again, and threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. His breath became rapid and shallow.

The man stood in that impossible position for an hour. As Baltrog and Grimestoke waited, the water level in the cavern began to rise. When they had first entered the cavern it had just covered their feet. Now it was up the gnome's thighs and bitterly cold. The gnome found his teeth were chattering. The tide was coming in. In another hour the passage would be flooded and they would not be able to leave.

"My lord?" whispered Grimestoke.

"Hmm?"

"Can you swim?"

"Not well," said Baltrog, apparently unworried.

The man snapped his head forward. He lowered his strangely elongated arms and turned to face Baltrog and Grimestoke. For the first time the gnome had a good view of the man's face. Like the rest of his body it was covered with the oval scars. One surrounded his left eye socket. The eyeball was missing.

"My master says yes," said the Captain Bandle.

"Excellent,' said Baltrog, rubbing his hands together.

"If you betray him, he will make you the lowest of his slaves," the man said. "Better to be dead. I know."

Chapter Twenty-two

Voltag and Yolanthe made way through Tzanasport unmolested. No one in the city knew that Baltrog and Grimestoke had left, so they continued in their furtive routines. The few guards that had run from the castle had disappeared in the slum that surrounded the city, abandoning their uniforms in an attempt to become invisible to the two fighters who has slaughtered their comrades.

Outside the city walls the smells and squalor of the tent city worked to Voltag and Yolanthe's advantage. They were both stained and covered in other people's blood, so they fit in with the marauding thugs and lowlifes. They quickly found a horse dealer and paid his exorbitant price for two beaten-down nags. The dealer assumed they were criminals on the run and asked no questions. Within an hour the two fighters were on the road to Seatorn. They rode until it became too dark to continue safely. They made camp, but did not start a fire. Before sleeping Yolanthe lit a small torch by which to read the documents she had taken from Grimestoke's armoury.

"They seem to be plans," she said to Voltag, who was almost asleep. "For some sort of machine called an 'augmenter.' Something about magic forces being expanded."

"Humph," said Voltag, turning over in his bedroll. "Stuff and nonsense."

"I hope so," said Yolanthe, snuffing the torch.

They awoke at dawn. The clouds had dispersed over night and the day promised to be bright. They began to ride right away.

"How long to Seatorn?" asked Voltag.

"Two, maybe three hours," replied Yolanthe.

They rode in silence for a mile. The clouds of the previous night blew in-land and they found themselves riding in brilliant sunshine.

"You were willing to die before letting go of that axe," said Yolanthe.

"You were willing to let me die for that rope," said Voltag.

"It's the only thing that I have left that belonged to my father," said the half-elf. "Does your axe belong to your father?"

Voltag shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. "It belongs to the eldest son of the Grimm clan. Which is me," he said.

"So your father is dead?"

"Not that last time I saw him," said Voltag.

"Then why do you have the axe?"

Voltag looked at Yolanthe, about to say something cutting, but when he saw honest curiosity in her face he paused. She did not deserve his anger.

"I took it," he said, looking away. "When I left my clan, I took the axe. I should not have done that."

"Why did you take it?"

"Pride," said Voltag quietly. "I vowed to dip its blade in the blood of the man who wronged me."

"The elf who stole your fiancée?"

"Even him," said the dwarf.

"And what happened to you finger?" asked Yolanthe.

"I cut it off when I swore my oath," said Voltag. "Because it bore a ring given to me by her."

"That's some oath," said Yolanthe.

"It is indeed," agreed Voltag. "And I am bound by it."

"There are runes on the axe," said Yolanthe. "What do they say?"

Voltag grunted. "Very old runes. Can't hardly understand them. Something about a future king of my clan."

They rode in silence for another hour along a road that became broader and better maintained every mile. At the spot where the dirt road became cobbled, they could see the distant wall of Seatorn. An hour later, they were at its gate.

Voltag marvelled at the size of the Wall. It was not the height that impressed as much as the length. For although the Wall was a full 100 feet tall, it was almost a three miles long, stretching from sea to sea along the width of the peninsula. It seemed to go on forever, a great, blank structure made of stones so precisely cut that even the dwarf was impressed by the workmanship.

The gate was a massive structure of wood and iron. It sat well back from an iron portcullis. Because the Wall was so thick, was in fact a giant occupied building, the passage beyond the gate through the Wall was more of a giant tunnel than a mere opening. A series of stone structures forced people passing through the gate to zig-zag left and right as they passed through the Wall. A direct charge against the city would have been impossible. At the end of the tunnel was another massive gate. There a squad of Landguards interrogated newcomers.

"Name and business?" one of the guard asked Voltag and Yolanthe.

"Voltag Grimm, of the Grimm mountain tribe and Yolanthe. We're here to meet with Kerimos, a fella you work with," said Voltag.

A look of recognition spread across the guard's face. "Of course. Go through, turn left, follow the Wall until you come to a sign that says 'council office.' Go in there, top floor. He's been expecting you."

Voltag nodded and the two stepped into Seatorn.

It was the most beautiful city the dwarf had seen in his travels. The streets were all of cobblestone. The buildings were limestone with red tiled roofs. Most had decorative wainscoting painted white. There seem to be a public fountain on every corner, and old women could be seen sweeping the streets of refuse on every block. The city-side of the Wall was more impressive than its massive, blank other side, for here the Wall was decorated with innumerable glass windows, shutters, flower boxes, pendants, flags, even kites being flown from the highest levels. The people seemed prosperous and busy.

The dwarf and half-elf made their way through the crowds along the Wall until they came to the council office. They explained their business to another guard who directed them up a flight of stairs. When reached the top they found Kerimos sitting on a bench in a hallway outside of a pair of great doors. He jumped to his feet when he saw them.

"Is Baltrog dead?" he asked without hesitation.

"No," said Voltag. "He ran from the city. Took the little one with him."

"The gnome is wounded," said Yolanthe.

"Do you know where they went?"

"No," said Voltag.

Kerimos stared at both of them, hoping for more news. When it was clear no more would come, he slumped down on the bench.

"His place was full of maps of this city," said the dwarf. "He means to do something here."

"I believe you're right," said Kerimos. "But I don't know that I can convince the council. They have no stomach for war. They believe Seatorn is impregnable, and perhaps it is. They think the problems with the roads are caused by bandits and fires."

"We can talk to them," said Voltag.

"No," said Kerimos. "They don't know you. They'd suspect you were spies."

The council chamber doors opened and a servant beckoned Kerimos in.

He turned to the dwarf and half-elf. "Wait for me," he said.

Chapter Twenty-three

Every city has its town character. The old man who lives a strange, anti-social lifestyle; the old woman who talks to herself as she walks down the street; the hermit who glowers at anyone who comes within a stone's throw of his hovel.

Seatorn's town character was named Dre'Veis. She lived in a shack made of driftwood on one of the barren rock islands in the Necklace, the archipelago of islands that protected Seatorn's harbor. She had lived there as long as anyone in the city could remember. Some claimed she was an elf and over 500 years old. Others said that she was a large halfling who had taken a life-lengthening potion that had prolonged her years but made her mad. Whatever the truth, she looked fabulously old. Her unkempt, unshorn grey hair hung below her waist. It was fantastically adorned with coloured string, carved sticks, and bleached fish bones. The local children claimed it housed living animals. One of her eyes was permanently shut, the other preternaturally bright and piercing. Her face was complicated by wrinkles so deep and skin so weathered that it seemed to be made of stressed leather. She was bent over at the waist and walked with the aid of an elaborately carved and decorated stick made of whalebone.

Dre'Veis's shack was one of only two buildings on the Necklace. No one else lived on the islands because they were open to the winds that blew from the east and they had no source of fresh water. The other building was the great Seatorn lighthouse that was located on the last of the islands in the archipelago, the one farthest out in the harbor, called the Clasp. The lighthouse was unmanned. It worked on an ingenious system of mirrors that funneled daylight into a huge round tank of seawater at the top of the building. The tank contained local plankton that was highly phosphorescent. All day the plankton stored the sunlight in their microscopic bodies. All night they threw the light back out, creating a bright green beacon.

Some people claimed Dre'Veis had trained herself to drink seawater many years ago and that her only sustenance was the shellfish that grew on her small island. Others speculated that she was in league with strange underwater races of creatures that provided her with unnatural sustenance. But it was generally conceded that she was harmless, and certain sailors even claimed that it was good luck if she looked on your ship as it sailed out of harbor. Over the years she had become less an object of morbid speculation than a source of civic pride. She was often the first person that a newcomer to Seatorn saw if he arrived by ship, and she would be the last when he left.

If Dre'Veis knew or cared about the citizens of Seatorn's interest in her it did not show on her face this morning. She rose from her pallet of dried seaweed before dawn to find Chatter, her pet crab, swaying on its legs in the corner of her shack as though it were dancing. She had never seen it act that way and wondered if it was sick. When she stepped outside onto the bare rock of the island, however, she understood that the crab was reacting to something much more profound than illness. For as she stood at the edge of the calm sea, beneath stars that were fading at dawn's approach, she felt a sense of dread sweep over her that took her breath away. It came from the sea, she thought. No, through the air. Or perhaps from the lighthouse on the last island on the Necklace. There had been strange goings-on there over the past few days.

Whatever its source, it was evil, and it was coming to Seatorn.

###

Jelly scrubbed the deck of the ship with a boar-hair brush and lye soap. It was brain-numbing, back-breaking work, but Jelly didn't mind. It was a job he knew how to do well. Back and forth with the brush, then crawl forward to the next piece of deck and do the same until the whole deck was clean. Sure, it took a long time, and his knees became sore and his back sunburned, but no one else on the crew of the Flying Fish could scrub the deck as clean as Jelly no matter how hard they tried.

He knew. He had competed with them only last month to see who was best at cleaning the deck and no other crew member had come close. They had all agreed that he, Jelly, was the best deck scrubber on the ship and should be given the privilege of being sole deck scrubber for the rest of his days on the ship. That had been a proud day, and Captain Lauren had presented him with his own brush and bucket to celebrate his victory. Yes sir, no one could clean the deck like old Jelly.

He hadn't always held such a position of prestige on the ship. Although he found it hard to remember, Jelly was aware that there had been a time in his life when he hadn't been so fortunate. He thought he remembered being kicked out of a poor home in some mountain range as a child by a single mother who spent more time talking with a bottle than nursing him. And he recalled shivering in a gutter in Seatorn, begging for scraps of food throughout the town until he had made his way to the docks to stand, open mouthed and amazed, and stare at the sailing ships that slid into the harbor like wooden trestles topped with clouds. He spent weeks after that hiding on the docks, studying the ships and marveling at the goods they carried and passengers they discharged. Then, half-starved, he snuck aboard a ship, this ship, the Flying Fish, and stole a piece of biscuit. A sailor had caught him and whipped him, then tied him to the mast until the Captain was fetched.

Captain Lauren took pity on the boy. He had untied him and given him a crust of bread. And then the Captain had asked him if he'd like to go to sea. He warned him that the work would be hard but that if he persevered and didn't make trouble he would get a free place to sleep and all the food he could eat three times (!) a day. And so he had booked passage on his first voyage, a short run from Seatorn to Tzanasport, then up the coast and back to Seatorn.

The first two days had been hard. Jelly was so sick that he spent a day and a half vomiting over the rail while the rest of the crew slapped him on the back and told him to think about greasy pork chops and blood pudding. They were just trying to help him but it didn't work. If anything, it made his sickness worst. Finally, on the second day out, the Captain came forward with what he said was the cure for sea sickness. He gave Jelly a small piece of salt pork tied to a string and told him to swallow it. He did, and when it was down his gullet the Captain pulled it back up again on the string. It had hurt worse than anything he could remember, except maybe the blows of his mother, but after that he was never seasick again.

And now he had friends and a place to sleep. The Captain and the other guys on ship respected him because he was so good at scrubbing the deck. True, the others often went ashore and left him alone to do the work, but that was only because they trusted him so much.

Yes sir, it was nice to have such an important position on the ship.

He just wished it wasn't so hot. With the sails furled there was no shade on the deck and sun beat hard on his back. And it was still only morning! He couldn't understand why that crazy old witch on the Necklace was standing in the sun. She wasn't in charge of a ship's deck! But she had been standing on her island, looking at the harbor, ever since the sun had come up.

Crazy.

Still, the hot sun did dry the decks quickly. The Captain wouldn't be complaining about damp spots today.

But now there was some water dripping on the deck ahead of him. It wasn't rain. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. And it couldn't be from the sails. The ship was derigged.

More water fell onto the deck, this time drenching Jelly. And with the water came a shadow and the smell of something fishy, fishier than any bucket of herring Jelly had ever been asked to scale. Confused, Jelly looked up to see something vast and coiling stretching over his head. It rose from the sea, over the ship, over Jelly, and hovered there, dripping water and some other, thicker liquid. Jelly stared, wide-mouthed at the thing and dimly realized that it was vaguely familiar, an infinitely larger version of something that he had seen before. Where was it? Oh yes, on a type of strange fish that the crewmembers sometimes ate. What was it called again? Not an octopus, but something like that.

The word was just coming to Jelly's mind when the great form towering above him began to move downward, directly towards him, with a speed that did not seem possible for something of its size.

Squid, thought Jelly.

###

Oh, how Seaguard First Class Alain Kendrik hated mid-day sentry duty. Walking back and forth along a fifty-foot stretch of stone wall, high above the city, for four hours in the blazing sun. You would think there would be a breeze at this height, but there was nothing, not a breath. And not an inch of shade. The lucky stiff who pulled duty on the east wall at least had half of his beat in the shade of the tower, but Seaguard Kendrik had no place to hide from the sun.

Of course it didn't help that he was hung over. He shouldn't have stayed for that final pint at the Ragged Sail Alehouse last night, but they had been having such a good time. The songs had been funny, the jokes funnier, and he had flirted with the new barmaid. But he was paying for it now.

In his misery Kendrik compiled a list of things he hated about the Seaguards. He hated how the uniforms chaffed under the arms. He hated the smell of the bunkhouse. He hated the fish mash they served in the refectory every Thursday night. He hated Lieutenant Gornaeau, that pompous button-polishing martinet. And most of all he hated the boredom of mid-day sentry duty above the most boring city in the realm, Seatorn. What a sleepy backwater. Nothing ever happened here. There was no action at all, nothing for the Seaguards to do except polish buttons, eat fish-mash, and walk mid-day sentry duty.

He idly thought of putting in for a transfer to one of the southern ports where the Seaguards worked. He had heard stories about some of those posting. There you got to chase pirates, raid the camps of thieves, and sail to exotic islands populated with strange animals and curious women. That was the life! Even a transfer to the Landguards would be better. At least you got to ride horses and patrol the entire Finger.

Seaguard First Class Alain Kendrik looked out at the hated city, baking in the noonday sun. There were the boring temples, the boring market streets, the boring apartments. There were the same old law courts, the tedious fountains, the mind-numbing public square, that stifling cemetery. There were the stupid warehouses, docks, and ships. And there was a massive tentacle crashing down on one of those docked ships, exploding them into splinters.

Kendrik stopped in his tracks. He blinked. Had he just seen what he had seen? Impossible. But there was the wreckage of the ship in the water. And now two more tentacles, impossibly large, were rising from the water and closing in on ships. And the sounds of the city had changed. Kendrik could hear screams. Alarm bells were ringing. Seatorn was under attack.

Seaguard First Class Alain Kendrik's hangover disappeared as fast as his boredom.

Chapter Twenty-four

Voltag and Yolanthe were still waiting in the hallway outside of the Seatorn council chamber when they heard the noise. The first sound was that of splintering wood. They both looked up at the noise, but then shrugged it off. Probably something fell during the unloading of a ship. But then it happened again, and bells were ringing and horns were blowing. The hallway they were in had no windows so the sounds were indistinct and they could not see their source.

The council doors flew open. Men and women in rich cloaks rushed from the room with undignified haste. Soon the large room was empty except for Kerimos, who was standing at the large window looking towards the sea.

"What is it?" asked Voltag.

Kerimos did not answer so the dwarf and Yolanthe entered the room, circled around the great meeting table, and took up a position beside him. The window had a high and panoramic view of the harbor.

Voltag sucked in his breath. Yolanthe muttered an elfish curse.

They had a perfect view across the city to the harbor. It was in chaos. The remains of ships, great splinters of woods, barrels and bottles, bales of cloth and sacks of spices, boxes of dry goods, ropes and sails, all littered the water. One of the docks was smashed in half and a few people, unlucky enough to be on the far end, now found themselves trapped on a teetering structure in the roiling water. A fire had broken out in a warehouse beside another dock. Part of its roof was smashed in and black smoke poured through the jagged opening. The sea itself was bubbling. Great unnatural eddies swirled the debris while crazy waves smashed against damaged ships. Great patches of the water were stained black. There were bodies in the water, some alive, most not.

"What in the name of Moradin?" asked the dwarf.

As if in response to his question, two great tentacles rose out of the dark swirling ocean. As tall as temple spires, as thick as oak trees, the purplish tentacles moved with impossible speed. They smashed down on ships, tore pieces out of buildings, pulled people under the waves.

A lone guard standing on the Wall of the city near the water let loose at the nearest tentacle with a crossbow. The bolt hit and stuck in the rubbery flesh of the tentacle but did nothing except alert the thing about the guard's presence. The tentacle swung at the guard, smashing him and a piece of the city wall out into the sea.

A flurry of arrows flew from the shore of the harbor. A troupe of Seaguards had rallied and made a stand behind a stone wall. Most of the arrows fell short, slipping harmlessly into the water except for one that struck a wounded man splashing in among the debris. The few arrows that hit the tentacle lacked the power to pierce its thick skin and bounced away. But they got the attention of the creature controlling the tentacles, and now it began to rise partly out of the water.

The three spectators gasped as the monster revealed the complex structure where the tentacles came together around a huge beak. Massive lidless eyes slipped above the water to glare at the confusion around it. The monster sprayed out a great flume of black liquid from somewhere on its body. The foul liquid rained down on the Seaguards, who immediately began to scream as it burned their skin.

"We must do something," said Voltag.

"There's nothing we can do," replied Kerimos. "Nothing at all."

So they watched the attack continue. The monster methodically sunk every ship, pulled apart every dock, and smashed every building it could reach. Anything alive was swatted into the water where it quickly drowned. The screams of dying men and horses faintly reached the ears of the three spectators above the sound of the destruction. It sounded as though an entire country were dying.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. The monster sunk from sight beneath the surface. A great eddy showed where it was travelled out to sea. Soon even that was gone. All that was left was a half-destroyed city and a harbor filled with floating debris.

Through it all the sun shone brightly, throwing flashes of light off the waves.

###

"What was that thing?" asked Voltag.

He sat with Yolanthe and Kerimos in the deserted council room. They could hear the sounds of wailing and alarms below them in the city.

"A kraken," said Kerimos. "A great kraken. The largest I have ever heard of."

"Some sort of sea monster?" asked the dwarf.

"More than a monster," replied Kerimos. "I have heard that krakens are intelligent beasts. They have magic powers, mind powers. They can enthrall people through their psychic abilities, reducing them to slaves."

"The way Baltrog does?" asked Yolanthe.

"I don't know Baltrog's power. But a powerful kraken can turn a man into a mindless servants of its will."

"Why does a fish need slaves?" asked Voltag.

"For its vanity. To intercede with land dwellers. I don't know. I've never met a kraken's slave, to my knowledge."

"Has Seatorn been attacked before?" asked Yolanthe.

"No," said Kerimos. "Not that I've ever heard. Some ships have been lost, but only if they have strayed into kraken territory. The local captains know the area and avoid it. But we've never had an attack. Never had any problems with the creatures."

"There's more than one?" asked Voltag.

"I don't know," said Kerimos, his head dropping in despair. "No one knows. Captains say there are only a few, and that one is always the leader. Perhaps that is what we saw." He placed his head in his hands, exhausted. "I don't know anything anymore."

Voltag and Yolanthe looked at each other. "Could it be Baltrog's doing?" asked Voltag.

Kerimos looked up. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

"Baltrog has been trying to isolate the Finger of Torn," said Yolanthe. "He's secured the land access. Now a monster has secured the sea access."

"Strange coincidence," grunted Voltag.

Kerimos looked at the dwarf and half elf with an expression of growing apprehension. "How could he? How could he deal with a kraken?"

"Don't rightly know," said Voltag. "But I'll tell you one thing for free. Seatorn is cut off. And I'll wager my beard it's Baltrog's doing."

"And I'll bet my bow that he's going to attack the city," said Yolanthe.

Kerimos' face fell. "Now I must convince the council."

###

"It was a random attack," said Tan Landrel, High Thane of the Council of Twelve, the ruling body of Seatorn. He was an old man, thin to the point of gauntness, with a deeply lined face dominated by a large, sharp nose. He wore the ceremonial hat of the Thane and, because this was an emergency meeting of the council, held in his hand the Scepter of Order. When the Scepter was brought forward it meant that circumstances were so dire that the Thane could invoke extraordinary powers in the defense of Seatorn. The normal voting procedure of the Twelve could be overturned. For two weeks the Thane could act as a benevolent dictator, raising taxes for war efforts, conscripting troops, imposing curfews. At the end of those two weeks the Council could vote to extend the state of emergency for another two weeks, but after that the Thane would have to petition the Council for a special vote on every major decision.

The Thane continued. "It was a terrible thing. The worst thing that has happened to our city in living memory, but it was random. A mindless beast attacked our city in a rage. It is gone, and we must begin rebuilding."

Kerimos could not believe what he was hearing. He stood in the council room, directly in front of Landrel who sat behind a long table that curved around in a crescent shape. The other members of the Council sat on either side of him at the same table.

"High Thane Landrel," began Kerimos, "Members of the Twelve. A week ago you sent me to see what happened to our land trade. I have reported that the roads through the mountains have been blocked, bridges burned, and towns destroyed, all by sorcerer Baltrog. He rules like a monarch in Tzanasport, a city he has crippled with his cruelty. He had our emissary tortured to death.

"I hired two mercenaries who almost succeeded in capturing the sorcerer. They tell me that Baltrog has systematically cut off the Finger of Torn from the rest of the realm. This is part of his plan to isolate us. To leave us at his mercy. Then this kraken attacks us, destroying the harbor. This cannot be a coincidence."

One of the thanes, a woman that Kerimos did not know, interrupted him. "Are you saying that this magician controls the monster?" she asked.

"Perhaps," said Kerimos. "Or he is somehow in league with it."

Several of the Council members snorted in derision. One laughed out loud. The Thane, however, sat grim faced. "A man controls a kraken? It does not seem possible, but I have taken the precaution of calling an expert to review the matter."

The Thane nodded to a guard by the chamber door. The guard opened the door and gestured to someone who was waiting outside. After what seemed like an unnecessarily long time, an old man carrying a heavy book shuffled into the room.

Kerimos sighed inwardly. The old man was Pankas Carter, the city's naturalist. He had held the post for almost fifty years, beginning when he was in charge of the small zoo attached to the fort. A previous council that had contained several members interested in animal husbandry promoted him to official city naturalist. He had held the post ever since, living on a small stipend and spending his hours in the city library assembling ancient animal lore out of musty travel books. Local farmers avoided him because of his arcane notions on the keeping of livestock. Hunters knew they could sell him animal skins that they had dyed or altered by telling him they came from exotic species. His name was a byword for scholarly inanity in the city. A common expression to denote something unnecessarily complicated was "Queer as Carter's fish."

Carter placed his books on the council, gave a creaking bow to the council members, and lowered himself onto a stool.

"Good Master Carter," said the Thane, "We need your knowledge. As you know, the city has been attacked by a sea monster. A kraken."

"That's more than I know," said Carter.

The Thane paused. Other members of the council looked at each other in bewilderment. "You don't know about the attack?" asked Kerimos.

"Oh I know of the attack," said Carter, "But it's more than I know to say that it was a kraken that did the attacking."

"But many people saw the monster," said a member of the Council.

"Ah, but did a trained naturalist see the monster?" asked Carter, his eyes sparkling with glee. "No doubt it _resembled_ a kraken. It may even have _been_ a kraken. But _was_ it a kraken indeed? That is more than we know."

"What else could it have been?" asked Kerimos.

"There are many creatures in the sea," said Carter. "Infinite numbers of strange fauna, most of which have not been seen by the eye of man, much less catalogued and studied to the exacting levels demanded of the true naturalist. So while it may have been a kraken, it may have also have been a pseudo-kraken, a creature that mimics the kraken in most ways. It may have been more than one creature teamed together so that they looked like a kraken combined. It may have been some creature that we do not yet know that looks, acts, and attacks just like the kraken but is not a kraken according to the definitions provided in the most authoritative bestiaries. In short, I know that the city was attacked by a creature, but whether or not that creature was truly a kraken, is more than I can say."

The old man crossed his arms in a gesture of smug triumph.

"Well," said the Thane, "Perhaps we had better ask another question. Our First Landguard, Kerimos, proposes that this, um, creature, whatever it was, was acting in league with, or under the control of, a sorcerer. That its attack was a strategic, intelligent action designed to further isolate the city. What have you to say to that?"

Carter looked at the Thane. He then made eye contact with every member of the council before turning his gaze on Kerimos. He smiled. Then he chuckled. Then he broke into a cackling laughter. This show of mirth continued for several moments until Carter finally wiped his eyes and caught his breath.

"Oh I'm sorry," he said still chuckling. "I haven't laughed like that in ages. A sea creature in league with a sorcerer. Oh dear. What next? Dolphins talking to each other in squeaks and whistles? Oh dear me."

"Sea captains talk of such things," said Kerimos tightly.

"Sea captains? _Sea captains?_ Sea captains believe in fish that fly. Sea captains believe that whales breath air like human beings. No no no no. Sea captains are no authority. Superstitious fools, the lot of them." Carter began to rifle through one of his books. "Ah here we are. Yes. If you want to know about sea creatures you do not ask sailors, you read Amthos Quire. This is his greatest book, _A Compendium of Fish, Sea Fauna, Water Creatures, and Dwellers in Brackish Realms_. Here we are, here we are." Carter squinted at a page. "He has it right here. 'Squid, octopi, and kraken . . .' Mind, I haven't confirmed it _was_ a kraken, but never mind. 'Squid, octopi, and kraken are as brainless as they are boneless, no matter their size.'"

Carter slammed the book shut. "There you have it," he exclaimed. "'Brainless.' Quire says so. One cannot form a league with a brainless creature."

"The monster targeted our ships, our docks, our warehouses. It was not a brainless attack," said Kerimos through clenched teeth.

"A bird may peck at the letters written on a page," said Carter, "And those pecks might accidentally spell a word, but that does not mean the bird can read." He crossed his arms again.

The room was silent. Finally the Thane spoke up. "Thank you, Master Carter, for you, um, scholarship. You may go."

Pankas Carter stood, bowed slowly to the Council, gathered his books, and moved towards the door. As he passed Kerimos he smiled and said under his breath, "In league." He was chuckling when the guard shut the door after him.

"Well," said the Thane. "It seems that the attack by the creature was an unfortunate coincidence. Do you have anything left to say before the Council turns to matters concerning the relief of the those hurt and left homeless by the attack?"

"I would like it recorded that I believe the creature's attack was part of Baltrog's plan to isolate our city," said Kerimos. "I believe he will mount an attack on our city soon."

"Does this magician have an army?" asked one of the Councillors.

"He has followers," said Kerimos. "He has been using them to isolate the countryside and command the towns."

"How may followers?"

"We do not know for certain. The mercenaries I hired spoke of a smallish number. Perhaps fifty."

The Thane leaned back in his chair. "Fifty? Against Seatorn? Against the Seaguards? Is he mad?"

"Or are you?" asked another Council member.

Chapter Twenty-five

Voltag and Yolanthe rose from the bench on which they had been resting when Kerimos came out of the Council chamber.

"Well?" asked the dwarf.

Kerimos waited until the guards closed the chamber door's before he spoke. "They don't believe us. They think the kraken's attack was a coincidence. They don't believe Baltrog can hurt the city."

While Voltag sputtered in rage, Yolanthe asked, "Should I speak to them? I know about Baltrog."

Kerimos shook his head. "That would not make you trusted. No. We have to remain vigilant, but there's nothing we can do."

"We can find Baltrog and kill him," said Voltag. "Where would he be?"

"I don't know," Yolanthe answered. "He travels a lot. He could be anywhere in the Finger."

"We don't know where he is, but we know he'll come here," said Kerimos.

Voltag grunted. "If he's coming here, we can wait. But why here? What does he have against Seatorn?"

"That's a very good question," said Kerimos. He turned to Yolanthe. "Any ideas?"

Yolanthe thought back to her time with Baltrog. Seatorn was something that he constantly alluded to but never discussed outright. There was a large map of the city on his study wall, but she never saw him look at it. She had always assumed that he had some agents in Seatorn or that the city was already under his control. He had never brought her there to use her particular talents, but whenever the travelled close enough to the city to see it, Baltrog had stopped his caravan of followers to stare at the distant city and whisper to Grimestock.

"He was always obsessed by Seatorn," she said finally. "But why, I don't know."

"Maybe we can find out," said Kerimos.

###

The records of Seatorn were stored in a long colonnaded room on the ground floor of the city hall. One entire wall was made of huge windows that let natural light pour into the space and illuminate the thousands of books, scrolls, parchments and maps that made up the record collection.

When Voltag, Yolanthe, and Kerimos arrived at the record hall they were surprised to find the door unlocked and unguarded. Their surprise increased when they entered the huge room. It was utterly deserted. The only movement was the dance of dust motes in the sunbeams; the only sound was their footsteps.

"Where is everyone?" asked Voltag.

"I don't know," replied Kerimos. "Maybe down at the docks."

"How are we going to search this place?" asked Yolanthe.

"I don't know," said Kerimos. "Perhaps Baltrog's name is in here somewhere. But where?"

"Where where where where where." The female voice came from behind them. They spun around to find a gnome dressed in an elaborate tunic staring at them through thick round glasses. She had a bundle of papers under her arm.

"That's always the question, isn't it? Where." The gnome was as round and ruddy as Grimestock was thin and pale. She scurried past the three guests towards the middle of the record hall. "Where where where," she repeated.

Voltag and his companions exchanged a glance then followed the little woman into the center of the record hall. They rounded the bookshelf that the gnome had disappeared behind and found the little woman sitting at a miniature desk surrounded by heaps of books. She was busily shuffling some papers. "Where where where," she muttered under his breath.

Kerimos stepped towards the woman. "Hello," he said. "I am Kerimos and the city's Landguards.

"Hmm. I am Lazone Dingbittle, Master Recorder of Seatorn. My apologies for not greeting you earlier. The attack, so much information coming in, it is a nightmare."

"We know, and we're sorry to bother you at this busy time, but we need some information that might help save Seatorn from another attack," said Kerimos.

"Another attack?" said Dingbittle. "Oh dear oh dear. Not good. Not good at all. What information do you need?"

Kerimos sighed. "It's complicated. We believe that a man is behind this attack. This man wants to isolate Seatorn. If we could find out more about him, we could perhaps find him. His name is Baltrog. He styles himself a lord."

"Lord of what?" asked the little woman.

"Lord of pain when I finds him," said Voltag.

"Lord of Tzanasport," said Yolanthe.

"Ah, Tzanasport," said the gnome. "This way, this way." She jumped off her chair and scampered through the bookshelves towards the north wall of the room. In a minute the group found themselves staring at a series of huge bookshelves crammed with documents.

"This is Tzanasport," said Dingbittle.

"I don't understand," said Kerimos.

"No no no," said the Master Recorder. "You wouldn't. Let me explain. This room is a repository for all the documents concerning Seatorn. We also have many documents concerning the rest of the Finger of Torn, including Tzanasport, and the rest of the realm. So many documents, so many papers. How to organize them? Can you guess?"

The three visitors shook their heads.

" _Geographically_ ," said Dingbittle. "You see, this room is long and narrow, like the Finger of Torn. Indeed, it is aligned east-west, like the Finger. The room then is set up like a map of the Finger. Tzanasport is on the coast of the north shore of the finger near the main land, so the Tzanasport documents are on the north wall of the room near the door. You see? My desk represents the mountains. Documents about the realms beyond the Finger are on the other side of my desk. Documents about the sea are in a special room just beyond the Seatorn stacks. Documents about mining are in the basement. Very simple."

"I see," said Kerimos doubtfully. "So how do we find out about Baltrog in Tzanasport?"

The Master Recorder shook her head at the ignorance of the question. "Baltrog is called a lord," she said patiently. "All documents about him will therefore be on the top of the people bookcase, just as all documents about beggars and criminals would be on the bottom of the same bookcase. Social hierarchy is reflected in the organization."

"Right," said Voltag. "Where's the people bookcase?"

"Well," said Dingbittle, "You'll be wanting the _living_ people bookcase for this year. Which is right here."

She pointed at a bookcase some twelve feet tall groaning under the weight of its many documents that were heaped on its shelves in no discernable order.

"One last question," said Kerimos. "How long does it usually take to find documents about a specific person, if you only have a name to work with?"

"Oh, there is no 'usually'," said the Master Recorder. "It can take anywhere from two weeks to three months."

They could hear the main door of the chamber open and shut.

"Oops," said Dingbittle. "Another customer. Happy hunting!"

She scampered behind a bookcase and was gone.

"Two weeks," grumbled Voltag. "In two weeks the mad man could be anywhere. Or he could be here with an army. I would give my beard to have his white-haired head under my axe right now."

"Three months," said Yolanthe. "Whatever is going to happen will be long over by then."

"We don't have the time," said Kerimos. "It can't be done."

"Yes it can," said an unfamiliar voice.

All three looked up to see the Master Recorder standing beside a woman. She was in her late forties, dressed in a cheap dress that was too tight for modesty and ripped at the hem. She was covered in the dust of smashed buildings. Her face, which showed the signs of various excesses, suggested that the dress had fit once, years ago, before its owner had given herself over to the pleasures of the tavern. Her black hair was streaked with gray, her eyes rimmed with red. She wore badly applied make-up.

"Who would you be?" asked Voltag.

The woman raised her chin, trying to muster her dignity before the suspicious gaze of three would-be researchers. "My name is Tinder," she said.

Chapter Twenty-six

When the kraken attacked Seatorn, Tinder had been sleeping off the effects of a two-day drinking session on the floor under the main table of the Square Rigger Pub. She couldn't remember what had precipitated this particular bender. A sailor with pocket full of coins to spend? The picking of an especially full purse? It didn't matter. The only thing that counted was the warm oblivion of the wine, the fleeting camaraderie it brought, and the temporary extinction of all pain. She should have climbed the stairs to her room to sleep, it's true, but that bare space was hardly more comfortable than the floor. It's only virtue was that it was free. Tinder had long ago traded away the share of the tavern that she had inherited from her mother for a free room in the building. The only money she needed was for food and drink, and the former could be forgotten if the latter was flowing.

But the mornings could be rough.

The tavern was empty. The bartender and owner were away. It was only her, lying in the rushes on the filthy floor, trying to calm the pounding in her head.

Eventually she made it to feet, leaning heavily on the table. When she felt she could let go of that support, she gingerly straightened up and brushed the worst of the dirt from her last good dress. Her head pounding, she went behind the bar and looked for water. Finding a jug, she drank a tall glass.

Now something to settle her stomach. A piece of ginger was always good. Perhaps she had enough coins to buy a piece at the vegetable stand down the street. She found her purse behind the bar and checked inside. A few pennies were left. She hobbled to the front door.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the tavern door.

The bright light almost blinded her. It was a brilliant, cloudless day. The sun was warm but the air crisp with the salt breezes that blew across the harbor. The sunlight sparkled on the light chop of the ocean, sending blasts of pain into Tinder's bloodshot eyes.

Why can't it be cloudy, she asked herself. Why does it have to be so bright when my head hurts so much?

Staggered by the light, she closed the tavern door and carefully walked next door to the vegetable stand. The old woman who ran it gave her a dirty look before she even got close. That old biddy thought she was better than everyone else. She sneered at the people who entered the tavern and had been known to spit at the drunks who fell asleep on the street. She held a special scorn for Tinder, perhaps because she was a woman, perhaps because she herself seemed to have no life except selling her vegetables.

Tinder straightened her back and walked up to the stand. It didn't matter if the old biddy looked down on her. She was a paying customer with pennies in her purse. She came up to the stand, made a show of looking at the vegetables, and asked if there was any ginger. The old biddy looked up at her with scorn in her eyes and opened her mouth to speak.

Except she didn't speak. She screamed and stepped back in horror.

Tinder's first thought was that she must look especially bad this morning, but the old biddy's reaction seemed a bit strong. Then it struck her that the biddy was looking at something behind her. She turned around and scanned the street. Nothing unusual.

Then she looked up.

The tentacle towered above the shops on the street, impossibly high, until it came down with incredible speed and crushed the building across the street from Tinder.

Frozen in fear, not able to believe she was actually awake, Tinder watched the tentacles crash through the building to the ground. The great tip of the thing hit the cobblestones not five feet from where she stood. Then it dragged itself back in the water, pulling most of the crushed building into the sea.

Tinder became aware of the sounds. There were screams, bells, alarm horns. There was the sound of water, the sound of wood splintering, the sound of stones tumbling on each other. Someone was crying; someone was praying; Seaguards were shouting ineffectual orders.

Still Tinder did not move. She watched as the tentacle rose and fell again. It was joined by others, smashing into the structures of the harbor, crushing the ships that she could now see on the water since the building in front of her that had blocked her view had been taken down to the ground.

Then there were smells. The smell of plaster dust and broken wood. The smell of blood and smoke. The smell of the sea and of ships: tar and rope and sailcloth. And there was another smell, something alien, something of the sea but so overpowering it almost made her gag.

Still she did not move. She stood, frozen, consumed by a single thought.

Edwin.

It had been the night of his father's execution. Tinder had not gone, but she had heard afterwards of the horror of the event. She knew that Edwin was behind it. So that night, when her mother was off with some customer, she had snuck out of the tavern and run through the dark streets of the city to Edwin's house.

No candles had been burning in the windows of that house, all of which had been stripped of their drapes. Tinder pounded on the door but no answer came, just the echo of a house empty of furniture. The door was locked and marked with a seal of the City Council. Tinder called out Edwin's name several times but there was no answer. She scanned the streets. No one was about. No one wanted to be near the house of an executed criminal. She used the privacy to summon her magic. She focused energy on the bolt of the door. It glowed and finally shattered. She stepped into the darkened house and shut the door behind her.

The front room was empty save for some bits of paper. The kitchen was similarly stripped bare, so she made her way to the second floor, to the study where she, Edwin, and the other magic children had gathered so many times. She pushed open the familiar door to be confronted with smashed bookshelves, torn scraps of books, a broken abacus, and other detritus that the bailiffs had thought insufficiently valuable to cart off. The room had no exterior windows so when she stepped into it she summoned a small globe of light to illuminate her way. When the globe reached full power she surveyed the room.

There was someone there, huddled in the corner. She jumped back in fright, but the figure did not move.

"Edwin?" she asked.

Still the figure did not move. Tinder crossed to it and reached forward to touch its shoulder, but before she could it said quietly, "Get out."

It was Edwin's voice.

"Edwin," she said. "What are you doing? Can I help?"

For a moment there was no answer, then Edwin lifted his face. Tinder stepped back with a gasp. Edwin's hair had gone completely white.

"Leave," he said. "Leave me. Leave Seatorn. Leave the Finger."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to destroy it," Edwin said quietly.

Tinder raised her hand to her mouth. "You can't mean that," she said. "Edwin, you can't . . ."

Instantly Edwin was standing, holding her hand tightly in his and staring into her eyes. "Edwin is dead. Do you understand? Dead. I'm something new. Something that doesn't even have a name yet, just a purpose."

He dropped her hand. "When I was Edwin I liked you," he said sadly. "Maybe I even loved you. But Edwin is dead. Everything that Edwin felt is dead, except hate. Because I used to care for you I give you this warning. Leave. I will destroy this city. Not today, not for many years, but I will destroy Seatorn."

She opened her mouth to protest but Edwin did something. He invaded her mind. She reeled back under the force of the psionic assault. She felt Edwin's hated, the narrowing of his being to a single point of revenge. But she also felt his intelligence and patience. Then she felt herself losing consciousness.

She remembered was waking up on the floor of the library. It was morning. Edwin was gone. As far as she could tell, he had taken nothing with him except the clothes on his back.

But now, standing amidst the kraken's attack, it made sense. She had been hearing from patrons of the tavern that there had been strange things happening on the roads out of the Finger, especially in the mountain towns. Someone had said it was almost as though Seatorn was being purposely isolated, cut off from the rest of the world.

Then this.

Edwin.

She had to find someone, to tell her story.

She ran. Through the collapsing buildings, past the fires and panicked Seaguards, down the streets clogged with hysterical people. She ran until she was out of the kraken's reach. Where now?

The Seaguard post was on the harbor. It was certainly destroyed. That left the city hall, built into the west wall of the city. She ran there only to be turned away from the main doors by an ashen-faced guard.

"But I have news," she had cried. "I know who's doing this."

"Walk away, you tart," the guard shouted. "There's no time for your drunken ramblings now." He pushed her to the ground then turned his attention to other citizens who were crowding the doorway demanding protection.

She pulled herself to her feet and surveyed the scene. Increasing numbers of people were crushing up against the door, trying to get past the guard and into the city hall. Some were seeking the safety of the massive stone walls, others were demanding to see the members of the Council, some were simply mad with fright.

She spent the entire morning watching the crowd, watching the guard repel their advances, watched him let in a few prosperous looking citizens who surreptitiously pressed coins into his hand. Finally, late in the afternoon, she began to walk away. She walked along the Wall, having no place in mind to go, when she passed a door set in the Wall that she had never noticed before. Where did that go? Into some room in the city hall. Maybe she could get in there.

She tried the door. It was unlocked. She stepped into a small hallway that led to a heavy door with a sign on it that said "Records." Tinder opened the door and stepped in. It was huge chamber full of shelves of books. She was about to call out when she heard someone coming towards the door. She ducked behind a bookshelf and crouched down. She heard the door open and heard several people enter. They called out, but she did not answer them, afraid they were guards. Immediately after someone else entered and Tinder overheard their conversation about Tzanasport. They were looking for someone named Baltrog.

Not Edwin.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the attack by the monster was a random occurrence. Maybe she had so muddled her thoughts with drink over the years that she could no longer tell reality from fantasy.

Deeply ashamed, Tinder stood up and silently made her way to the door. She would sneak out while those three people were speaking to the Recorder.

She opened the door when she heard the gruffest of the voices say, "I would give my beard to have his white-haired head under my axe right now."

Shocked, she let go of the door. It slammed shut, and almost immediately a little gnome was looking at her through thick, round glasses.

###

Tinder told her story to the human, dwarf, and half-elf in a small room off the main chamber of the Record hall. The gnome hovered in the open door way until she heard Tinder describe the execution of Edwin's father. She scurried off and returned several minutes later with a pile of documents tied in a bundle with red string.

"The report on the execution of Searoar Hawkright and the subsequent riot," she said, dropping the dusty bundle on the table that the group was huddled around.

Kerimos untied the bundle and began to sift through the papers as Tinder finished her story.

"I never saw him again, nor heard of what happened to him," she said haltingly. Telling her story to these strangers made her nervous. She wished she had a drink. "But when the attack came I put it together with the news of the roads being closed. I remembered what Edwin said the last time I saw him. So I came here and heard you mention his white hair."

"In all these years since he left, what have you been doing?" asked Yolanthe.

Tinder looked down at her hands. They were trembling. "After he left, I didn't do anything. No magic. No school. I live in the tavern my mother owned." She felt herself about to cry. "I drink. I sleep on the floor. One day becomes another. I don't know. I don't care."

She covered her eyes.

A hand rested on her shoulder. "There now," said the gruff voice of the dwarf. "I've woken up on a few tavern floors myself. It's what a broken heart will do to you."

Tinder looked up into the face of the dwarf. Buried beneath the beard and bristling eyebrows were sad, wise eyes.

"Perhaps we can form a club," Voltag said.

She smiled at that, and wiped away the tears that were forming in her eyes.

"The broken-heart drinkers," the dwarf continued. "Got a nice ring to it."

He smiled. She laughed.

"By the ghosts of my ancestors," said Kerimos. "It's all here."

He was reading a yellowing scroll of parchment. "Searoar Hawkright was the waters-master of the city. He ran the waterworks of Seatorn. He was the engineer of the great culverts and cisterns under the city and regulated the water flow. But he came into debt. Gambling. And he began to extort money for water, which has always been free to the citizens of the city. When people did not pay, he poisoned their water supplies. Citizens thought it was an outbreak of the plague, but Hawkright was carefully running diseased water to the buildings of those that didn't pay. He killed 100 children at an orphanage, 20 nuns at a temple. All told he may have killed 300 people. The poisons were all found on his person. There was no question of his guilt.

"But when he was executed, terrible things happened. Bizarre magic things that caused a riot. The dead man's son disappeared right after." He looked up from his reading. "Baltrog is Edwin Hawkright."

"When did this happen?" asked Yolanthe.

"I'm not sure," said Kerimos.

"Seatorn's calender is calculated by the beginning of the election of the last member of the Council of Twelve every time a full new slate of council members is elected," said the Recorder.

"What does that mean?" asked Voltag.

"It means," said Kerimos, "that Seatorn's system of dating is needlessly complicated."

"Not if you have a handbook of chronology," said the gnome. "Which I do right here."

She reached into her jerkin and pulled out an octavo volume on a chain that she wore around her neck. She opened it, flipped through a dozen pages, and checked several charts. Finally she looked up and smiled.

"Ten years ago," she said triumphantly. "Today."

###

Voltag tarried with Tinder while the others walked off.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Go back and see if the tavern is still standing."

"Hmm," Voltag grunted. "If it isn't, come find us." The dwarf hesitated. "I ain't one to talk, but lay off the drink. Maybe practice the magic. Give you something to do. That's my advice." He reached under his chainmail and pulled out something that he pressed into her hand. "You'll be needing a new dress." He squeezed her closed hand, then turned and stomped off after his friends.

Tinder watched him go. It had been so long since someone had looked at her kindly that his departure felt like a new wound. Only when the dwarf was out of sight did she open her hand.

It contained a gold coin that would buy a hundred of the best dresses in the city.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Ulie Want collapsed on the cot in his work shed. He had been digging graves for almost six hours. His hands were blistered and his back ached. The kraken attack on the city had left over three hundred people dead. Well, that was the number of bodies that had been delivered to the cemetery since the attack. Who knew how many more were yet to come? Ulie had heard from the driver of the last corpse wagon that the Seaguards estimated the total number of dead at almost six hundred, but at least one hundred of those had been washed so far out to sea that their bodies would never be found. That meant that another two hundred might be coming into the graveyard over the next days or weeks. Some bodies were buried under so much rubble that it could take _months_ to get to them and by then the bodies would be severely decomposed.

To make matters worse, Ulie was all alone. His two assistants, Bobbie and his twin brother Robbie, had not shown up to work since the attack. Ulie knew that they walked through the harbor to get to the graveyard. He suspected that they have been killed in the kraken attack. But there would be no hiring of new assistants. All able hands were at the docks, digging through the rubble.

And so as the sun was starting to make its descent towards the sea, Ulie closed the gates of the cemetery and lay down on his cot for a few minutes. No one could begrudge him a bit of rest. The bodies could wait. They weren't going anywhere.

He had just slipped into unconsciousness when he heard scraping and banging. Someone was trying to get into the cemetery? Probably the Seaguards with another wagon of corpses and body parts.

"I'm coming!" Ulie shouted as he pulled his aching body off the cot. He rubbed his eyes, stood and stretched, then stepped out of the shed into the sunlight.

His shed was near the gates of the cemetery. The gates themselves were set into a space between two wings of the great wall. These wings, like the Wall itself, were four stories high and filled with municipal offices. The two wings converged and almost met. The gate filled the space between them. The cemetery was a triangle at the foot of three huge walls. None of the Walls had windows looking into the space, and the sun could only shine on it directly a few hours a day. The most prized plots in the cemetery were those that received those hours of sunlight.

There was no one at the gate.

Ulie rubbed his eyes again. No. No one there. But there's that scraping sound again. Coming from _behind_ him.

Ulie turned around to survey the cemetery. It was in turmoil today because of the influx of bodies that day. Large communal graves stood open. Heaps of earth were scattered about. But the scraping noise seemed to be coming from somewhere beyond the recently turned earth. In fact it was coming from the mausoleum closest to the front gates.

Ulie made his way to the mausoleum. It was one of the most beautiful in the cemetery and one of the most expensive. It belonged to a rich family of cloth merchants who had purchased it some ten years ago from the city when the original owners disappeared. Or were they exiled? Ulie couldn't remember. There was an official in the Wall that looked after those details. He just dug the graves.

There it was again. The scraping noise. And a light tapping. It seemed to be coming from _inside_ the mausoleum. But that was impossible. The mausoleum had not been opened in years. Ulie was sure the last member of the family to be buried in it had died four years ago. And nothing could have gotten in the building since. It was made of solid granite, a small stone house with only one heavy door which could not be opened without the key _and_ the help of several strong men.

Ulie looked at the mausoleum door. There was moss growing in the slender crack where it fit into the stone frame. It hadn't been opened.

He pressed his ear against the stone door of the small building. Yes, there was definitely something in there scraping at the walls. An animal? Could a rat have somehow dug its way into the mausoleum? Ulie couldn't remember but he thought the floor of the building was also a slab of solid stone. Perhaps it had cracked and something had crawled in.

But the scraping seemed too methodical to be made by animal. It seemed, somehow, intelligent.

With his ear still pressed to the stone, Ulie rapped his knuckles on the mausoleum door.

Immediately the scraping sound stopped.

Ulie held his breath as he listened.

Total silence.

The mausoleum exploded.

The stone door cut Ulie in two as it flew across the cemetery and crashed into the Wall. The heavy slates of the roof flew into the air and then rained down and shattered across the open graves and plot markers. The walls blew out with such force that hunks of granite shattered surrounding gravestones while others smashed into the Wall on all three sides.

A cloud of stone dust swirled around what was left of the mausoleum, rose in the air, and settled on the ground of the cemetery a ground that was now churning with subterranean movement.

###

Seaguard First Class Alain Kendrik was digging through the rubble of a seafront warehouse destroyed by the kraken. He had been at the job for hours and had yet to uncover a living person. But he and his fellow guard kept digging, assisted by all the able-bodied men that could make their way to the harbor. Hundreds of people had been trapped in the buildings when the monster had attacked. Some of them must be alive.

Secretly Kendrik was beginning to give up hope. Maybe it was his hangover, maybe it was the exhaustion of the day, but he did not expect to find anything but more bodies beneath the rubble. But still he dug and pulled at the wreckage.

Then he heard something. A sound of someone banging under the shattered roof that Kendrik was digging through.

"Someone's alive!" he shouted to the other rescue workers.

He pushed the broken roof tiles out of the way and uncovered a piece of the roof support. While the other rescuers ran to help him, he put his shoulder to the beam and heaved it out of the way. He could see a hand sticking out of the rubble. It was pale, ghostly pale, but it grabbed feebly at the air.

"I've found him!" he shouted.

He bent down and began to push away the rubble. He uncovered the back of the person's head. It was man, terribly bloodied, lying face down. Kendrik got the majority of rubble off the man's back just as the first of the other rescuers scrabbled to his position.

"Turn him over," someone shouted.

"His legs are still covered!" Kendrik shouted back in frustration.

But the man in the rubble must have heard the other rescuer, for now he was trying to turn himself over. In fact he _was_ turning himself over. But that was impossible. His lower body was pinned beneath heavy timbers.

Then Kendrik realized with a start that the man did not _have_ a lower body. It had been severed in the collapse of the building. But that didn't make sense. How could the man still be alive?

Kendrik looked at the face of the man who had just rolled over onto his back. Part of his forehead was missing. What was left of his face was completely drained of blood. His eyes were turned back in his head. He wasn't breathing.

He was dead.

But he was moving.

Before Kendrik could understand what was happening the corpse clawed out his throat.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Voltag, Kerimos, and Yolanthe stood on the Wall above the main gate into the city. They scanned the road that ran from the gate into the countryside of the Finger. The road was filled with people fleeing the city, afraid that the kraken would return.

"What makes you think he'll come this way?" asked Kerimos.

"Don't know he will," replied Voltag. "But he attacked the harbor. He might want to attack the Wall."

"He doesn't have an army big enough to attack the city directly," said Kerimos. "He would be foolhardy to try."

The two men turned to Yolanthe.

"You know him," said the dwarf. "What would he do?"

"He wants to destroy the city," she said. "He wants revenge for his father." She turned top look across the 100-foot expanse of the Wall at the city. Smoke still rose from the harbor.

"He would want to watch," she said.

Kermimos and Voltag exchanged a glance.

"You saying he's here?" asked the dwarf.

Yolanthe thought about the question. She had spent years in Baltrog's service. He entered her mind and used her body as an extension of his own. He made her kill for him. Was it possible that during that time, through those psychic links, that some sort of bond had formed between them? Was it possible that she would be able to sense his presence? For she felt something, something deep in the recesses of her consciousness, a cold like the cold she felt when Baltrog invaded her mind, but small and contained, a pin prick of ice at the back of her brain. She had felt it hours before the kraken attack but had dismissed it. But it was still there, an undeniable presence.

"Yes," she said. "He's here."

Voltag upholstered his axe in one fluid motion and swept his eyes over the expanse of the Wall. One hundred feet wide, almost three miles long, the top of the Wall was a great stone road four stories up. The expanse was broken by guard towers and other fortifications. Seaguards patrolled between the towers, but Voltag could see no one who looked out of place.

"Don't see him," he said.

"No, but he's close," said Yolanthe. "I just don't know where."

The dwarf relaxed his grip on his axe.

"He's hiding, then," he said.

"I don't know," said Yolanthe, shaking her head. "I just know he's here."

The three walked over to the city side of the Wall. It was late afternoon. The usual business of the city had been disrupted by the monster's attack. The only people in the streets were either fleeing or barricading their homes by nailing boards across the windows.

"If he wants to watch, he must be somewhere with a view of the city," said Kerimos.

"Where would that be?" asked Voltag.

"The Wall has the best views," said Kerimos, "but I doubt he would be here." He pointed at a temple spire in the middle of the city. "That's the tallest structure in the city, but it has no windows. And I see no one on top of the spire. There are other tall buildings, some with good views of parts of the city, but none that command a view of the whole. He could be in any of them."

"Or none," said Voltag.

"Or none," agreed Kerimos.

The three looked out over the expanse of the city. It would be dark in a few hours.

Dark, thought Voltag. A dark harbor city.

"How do the ships steer at night?" he asked Kerimos.

"By the lighthouse," he replied.

As soon as he said the word he focused his gaze on the harbor. Beyond the water, on the last island in the archipelago, stood the lighthouse of Seatorn. It was several miles away but even at this distance he could see that it was still standing. It had not been attacked by the kraken.

"How's the view from there?" asked Voltag.

"Good,"said Kerimos. "Very good."

The sound of an explosion rocked them. It was followed by the sound of rocks falling.

"By Moradin's eyeteeth!" exclaimed Voltag. "He's starting."

"Where did that come from?" asked Yolanthe.

"The south," said Kerimos. "Inside the Wall."

He scanned the city to the south. He could see the top of the wing of the Wall that projected into the city. Behind it he could just see the top of the other wing. Between those two structures a cloud of dust was rising into the air.

"The cemetery," he said.

###

The slave waited in the shadows of an alley across from the part of the Wall that contained the Seatorn treasury. Baltrog had told him and his master that the wand was locked inside. The undead were taking over the city and soon they would descend on the four guards who stood nervously on the steps to the treasury door. Then the slave would make his move.

He did not have long to wait. A dozen tattered undead, some of them very recently deceased, shambled towards the guards. The lead guard shouted to his men to fix their halberds on the shuffling corpses, but the men were so frightened their weapons shook in their trembling hands. Then one of the guards noticed that the freshest of the undead was a family member. He dropped his weapon and ran to the zombie, shouting "Brother! Brother!" Before the other guards could stop him he threw his arms around his dead sibling. The thing bit out his jugular.

The remaining guards panicked and ran. The undead shuffled after them.

The slave entered the treasury door. He quickly made his way through the deserted hallways.

There was a lone terrified guard standing outside the treasury door. He pulled his sword when he saw the slave.

"Stand back," he shouted. "Declare yourself!"

"I'm here for the wand," said the slave.

The comment only served to confuse the guard. "What wand?" he asked. "What are you talking about? Declare yourself or I'll run you through."

The slave pulled back his hood, revealing his scars and gills. The guard took a step back in fright.

"What are you?" he asked.

"A slave of my master," said the Slave. "Where is the wand?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," repeated the guard. "There are no wands here. This is the treasury. Now leave!"

The slave took a step forward. The guard stepped back.

"Give me the wand and you will not be hurt," said the slave.

The guard backed up another step and hit the door behind him. Seeing no way out, he screamed and charged at the slave, swinging his sword wildly. The slave stepped to the side, swept his tattered cloak over the face of the charging guard, and tripped the man. The guard went down on his face, dropping the sword. The slave put his foot on the weapon and, before the guard could rise, grabbed the back of the man's skull with his hand.

"Don't move," he said.

The slave focused a small bit of the vast psionic energy that enthralled him to his master to explore the mind of the guard. What he found did not surprise him: the guard had taken advantage of the panic in the city to try and rob the treasury. He had just dismissed the other guards and unlocked the door when the slave had arrived.

But as deeply as the slave probed he could but could find no trace of a wand in the guard's mind. That could mean that the man simply was not allowed access to such secrets.

He took his hand off the trembling guard.

"Run," he said.

The guard bolted out of the hallway.

The slave turned to the door of the treasury. It was unlocked, the keys still in the door. He entered the room and carefully closed the door behind him.

The large room was lit with oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. It contained rows of chests, some of them bearing huge locks. He began with the closest chest that was unlocked. It contained papers: property deeds and wills. The next contained gold, but nothing magical. He surveyed the room again. It would take hours to search every chest. But his master was nothing if not patient.

He searched the next chest.

###

Voltag, Yolanthe, and Kerimos exited the Wall just beside the main gate. An hour ago there had been a steady stream of people fleeing the attack of the kraken through the gate. Now there was a riot. Citizens, mad with fear, shoved and trampled each other in their rush to leave the city. Men cursed, women wept, and children screamed as they were lost in the crush.

"Follow me," said Kerimos to Voltag and Yolanthe.

He pushed through the crowd towards a narrow side street. The crowd here was thin and the farther they got from the gate the less people they saw on the street. But the occasional citizen ran past them in a blind panic, screams rang out from behind closed doors, and bonfires were being started and abandoned in alleyways. Every face that they saw was drawn tight with terror.

"What's scaring them?" asked Voltag.

"I don't know," said Kerimos. He tried to wave down a middle-aged man who ran past them in his nightshirt but the man ignored them.

"Let me try," said Voltag. When another man came running around the street the dwarf stood in his way. The man, panicked by something behind him, ran straight into Voltag. He might as well have run into a wall. He bounced off the dwarf and found himself sprawled on his back in the street. Before he could stand, the dwarf had him by his shirt.

"What're you running from?" he demanded.

The man, terrified by the fierce dwarf could only stammer. "The dead," he said. "The dead."

"What about the dead?" asked Voltag.

The man craned his neck to look in the direction he had come from, then he turned back to the dwarf. "They're alive," he gasped.

A dragging sound came from around the corner. Voltag let go of the man on the ground and unsheathed his axe. The man clambered to his feet and ran down the street towards the gate.

"It seems Ball-dog is up to his old tricks," said Voltag to his friends.

Something crawled around the corner. It was the top half of Ulie. The torso dragged itself along with its arms, its dead eyes set on Voltag.

"By Moradin's eyeteeth," said the dwarf.

"What manner of hell is this?" asked Kerimos.

"Necromancy," replied Yolanthe, watching the torso crawl slowly towards them. "Baltrog can bring the dead to life."

The torso was almost at Voltag. It reached a blistered hand towards his leg. With one motion the dwarf unsheathed his axe and beheaded the thing. The head flew against a wall and lay there, its mouth working for a few second before finally falling still.

"Would he bring all the dead in Seatorn to life?" asked Kerimos. "Can he do that?"

"He'll try," said Yolanthe.

"The cemetery," said Voltag. "That explains the noise."

"And the panic," said Kerimos. "But there will be more freshly dead at the harbor. I think we should head there."

"Towards the lighthouse," said Voltag, tightening the grip on his axe.

Kerimos drew his sword. "I've never fought the undead," he said. "Any suggestions?"

"Cut off the head," said Voltag. "Seems to work. Or knock 'em into small bits so they can't move."

"Fire works," said Yolanthe. She drew an arrow from her quiver and said a few words over the head.

"Magic?" asked Kerimos suspiciously.

"It'll help," interjected Voltag. "I've seen it."

Yolanthe took her bow off her shoulder and nocked the arrow.

"I'm ready," she said.

"More than ready," said Voltag.

"It will dark in a few hours," said Kerimos. "It would be good to get to the harbor before that. I know the way, so I'll lead. We stick together."

"Aye," said Voltag. "But when we get to the harbor, I'm going to kill Bowldog."

"When we get to the harbor," said Yolanthe, "it's a race to kill Baltrog."

The three looked at each other, nodded, then began to run.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Tinder set up a makeshift hospital in the Square Rigger pub. When she had returned and found the tavern still standing, she opened its doors to the wounded. Soon the room was filled with citizens injured in the kraken attack. She seated them and ran from one to another applying cloths to bleeding wounds, offering water and food, or simply reassuring the dazed. She worked through the afternoon to the point of exhaustion and still she worked, losing herself in the labor.

It was late in the afternoon when she finally was able to pause. She immediately walked to the bar and grabbed a bottle of wine. She filled a glass and was about to take a sip when she realized that she didn't want it. She was tired and thirsty, but she did not want the drink. Or did she? She usually began drinking earlier than this, and she was not usually this thirsty. But what had the dwarf said about laying off the drink and staying busy? Practicing magic? Well, she wasn't about to do that but she had been busy. She had helped a lot of people and there were still a few hours before nightfall. A little drink would calm her nerves. Prepare her for the hours of work to come

She raised the glass to her lips, but before she could drink she heard an explosion.

Several of the wounded screamed at the sound. One young man, who had lost his hand, began to chant "The monster the monster the monster." Another called for quiet. A few children began to cry.

A man about Tinder's age with a nasty wound in his side moved over to the children and tried to quiet them. He had told her that he was a stonemason and that he had lost his wife in the attack. For all the pain he must have been in, he was more concerned for the other wounded. Tinder marked him as someone she could trust if things got worse.

Tinder put down the glass. The explosion had not come from the harbor. It was distant, across town. Somewhere in the Shade or even on the Wall itself.

She ran to quiet the people upset by the sound, the wine left untouched. When it was clear that the sound was not coming from the harbor, most of the wounded fell silent though the children still needed reassuring. Once they were quiet Tinder moved to the door of the tavern and looked out at the wreckage.

The Seaguards were working with a number of men to dig through the rubble and look for survivors. There were so many collapsed buildings that she didn't think they would be able to search even half of them before night fell. She turned to go back into the tavern when she heard one of the guards working on a collapsed building down the block shout "Someone's alive!" Instantly other workers were scrambling across the rubble to help this guard.

"I've found him," the guard shouted. He was lifting some sort of timber to get to the person trapped beneath. Tinder felt her hope rise as the guard pushed the rubble aside and bent down to help the injured man. Other guards were arriving at the scene.

Suddenly the other guards stopped. Tinder could not see clearly, but there was something wrong with the first guard. He was stumbling backwards, falling, clutching at his throat. And there was blood all over his hands.

The other guards were shouting and pointing at something in the rubble. One guard pulled his sword and sliced at something where the injured guard had been digging.

Now there was chaos. The guards were shouting and running through the wrecked buildings. Farther down the road a wagon that was being used to transport bodies suddenly tipped over. Corpses, many of them crushed and mangled, sprawled onto the cobblestones.

And then they began to move.

Edwin.

He could animate the dead. It was his first trick. It was his best. He was bringing the dead of Seatorn to life.

The wounded.

The undead would find them, drawn by the scent of their wounds. And if any of them died, they might become undead.

Tinder looked back to the guard with the bleeding throat. He was lying on his back, sprawled at an impossible angle over the rubble. He was clearly dead.

But then his hand began to twitch.

Tinder closed the tavern door and locked it.

"What's happening?" asked a woman with a broken leg.

"Nothing," said Tinder. "They're trying to help people caught in the rubble. That's all."

She stepped to the window and looked out through its dimpled, distorting glass. The guard with the ripped throat was flopping around in the rubble, trying to stand. Many bodies would be crawling out of the wreckage in the next few hours. And what would happen when it got dark? Where would be safe?

The Necklace. The undead couldn't swim, could they? If she and the wounded made it to one of the islands while the tide was still low, they would be sealed off by the water from the mainland when the tide came up. The undead might not even know they were there.

She realized with a start that she had not been on the Necklace since she was a child. She and Edwin had gone there a few times. Once they borrowed a rowboat and gone all the way to the lighthouse. They had sat in front of the great tank and watched the sun go down. The green light of the tank had illuminated their backs and in that eerie light Edwin had kissed her for the first and last time.

The lighthouse. Edwin.

She looked at the distant structure, miraculously untouched during the kraken's attack. Was it her imagination, the distortion of the glass, or did she see a figure standing there in front of the tank, staring at the city? At her?

###

Voltag, Yolanthe, and Kerimos ran through the panicked city. Kerimos was trying to find a direct a route to the harbor but many of the streets were blocked. Citizens were erecting makeshift barricades to keep out the undead. Some of these had been set on fire.

One diversion forced them into a narrow, curving alleyway behind the stores of Shop Street. The lane was not paved and a small stream of water ran down its center. The height of the buildings on each side kept the lane in shadow. They could hear screams and the sounds of smashing glass from the main streets.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" asked Yolanthe.

"Yes," said Kerimos over his shoulder. "As long as we're going downhill we'll reach the water and then the harbor."

He stopped running. Ahead of them a dozen undead were tearing something apart.

"Go back or go through?" asked Voltag.

"Go through," said Kerimos.

"Good lad," said the dwarf charging forward with his axe held high.

"Wait," said Yolanthe, aiming her arrow. "Me first."

She fired her arrow just as one of the undead raised its head in their direction, a piece of bloody meat in its mouth. The arrow caught it in the chest, knocking it back on top of the creature the zombies were feasting on. Then it burst into flames. The rags on the closest undead also caught fire. Within seconds half of the creatures were in flames, stumbling into walls or rolling on the ground in mindless confusion.

"Now me," said Voltag and attacked. He cleaved a flaming creature in two on the first swing then brought his axe up in an arc that decapitated another. There wasn't room between the alley walls to bring his axe up to full speed so he chose his targets selectively. He was just about to hack another of the flaming creatures when its head seem to fly off of its own accord. Kerimos had entered the fight without a word and had neatly decapitated the creature with his sword.

The two men waded into the undead and hacked at them until there was only a pile of body parts, some still moving, on the ground. Yolanthe came up to join them.

"It will be dark soon," said Kerimos.

"I can see in the dark," said Voltag. "Just point the way."

Kerimos nodded and the three took off at a run down the alley.

In a minute they emerged into what was left of the main city square. It had become a war zone. Undead were stumbling around, clawing at boarded up windows and descending in packs on any people unlucky enough to be caught in the open. Two of the roads leading from the square had been blockaded with overturned wagons, one of which was on fire. Citizens behind the wagons were hurling ineffective weapons at the zombies. Others threw heavy articles from their upper story windows onto the creatures in the square. A few citizens, mad with fright, were stumbling around the square raving. They quickly fell prey to the zombies.

Voltag noticed a child alone near the center of the square. She was clutching a doll and crying quietly. There were no adults around her. A group of undead shambled up behind her.

"By Moradin's kneecaps," he muttered under his breath.

"West toward the harbor," said Kerimos, but when he turned around to check on his companions, Voltag was gone.

"Where?" he began to ask Yolanthe but then he caught site of the dwarf, already halfway towards the little girl. The first of the undead were almost upon her.

Yolanthe nocked an arrow and let fly. It passed over the head of Voltag, over the child, and slammed into the chest of zombie that was rearing up behind her. Yolanthe spoke a quick incantation and the arrows burst into flames, partially exploding the zombie. The little girl, startled by the noise, turned around to see a living corpse with a fire burning in its chest falling towards her. Her scream was cut short by Voltag who grabbed her up just as the flaming corpse fell to the ground.

Voltag found himself in the center of a square peopled with the undead, holding a small child in his arms. He looked over to Kerimos and Yolanthe but they had turned their backs on him to deal with some bloody mouthed creatures that had come out of a nearby building.

"Right," said Voltag to the little girl. "No crying now. It's time for a ride. Up on my back."

"But what about dolly?" asked the child through her tears.

Voltag gritted his teeth but managed to pull his lips back in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Put him in sheath on my back. He'll be nice and snug."

"It's a girl," said the child. "Her name is Buttons."

"Right. Buttons into the sheath. You up on my back. Here we go."

The girl climbed onto his back and hung on to his shoulders. Voltag reaffirmed the grip on his axe and surveyed the square. There were four zombies coming up quickly from the same direction the one Yolanthe had shot. Some of the undead that were menacing Kerimos and Yolanthe had noticed him and were beginning to stumble his way. Other creatures around the edge of the square were beginning to turn in his direction.

"Well little miss," he said in as cheery a voice as he could muster. "What's your name?"

"I'm Ruyla," said the little voice beside his ear. "I'm six."

"Right, Ruyla," said Voltag. "I want you to wrap your hands in my hair as hard as you can, then close your eyes and hang on, because we're going to do a dance. Okay?"

"Okay," said Ruyla. Voltag felt her tiny fists curling into his hair.

"Close your eyes," he said, "because here we go."

Voltag began swinging his axe. He couldn't do all the patterns he would have liked with the girl on his back, but he could set a slashing wall of steel in front of him. As long as he moved forward faster than the undead could walk, he should be able to keep them off his back. Soon the axe began to whistle in the air as it described a vicious figure eight in front of him. He moved forward. The axe bit into the first of the four creatures that had been following the one Yolanthe shot. It was a teetering mass of putrefying flesh, long in the grave, and it exploded in a burst of stinking fluids when Voltag's axe sliced through it. Voltag gagged on the liquids that rained down on his head.

He stepped forward into the last three of this pack of undead, deftly moving sideways so that his axe blade became a moving wall of steel into which all three of the creatures blundered. They fell apart, their sundered limbs twitching on the ground,

Voltag turned around and began to make his way back to his companions at the edge of the square. Blocking his way was a very large undead. The thing had been half-orc or half-bugbear when it was alive and it had not been dead long. It moved more quickly than the other creatures. It swung a claw at Voltag and was rewarded by having its hand severed in the maelstrom of steel that was the dwarf's ceaselessly moving axe. Unconcerned with the loss of its appendage, the creature lurched forward into the circuit of the blade. It happened so fast that Voltag was not able to redirect his blade at the thing's neck, and his axe slammed into the creature's side, embedding itself between its heavy ribs.

Voltag stepped backward and tugged at the axe. It was stuck. As he pulled the creature swung its other arm at his head. He ducked and heard the little girl scream in his ear.

"Keep your eyes closed," he shouted.

Voltag let go of the handle of his axe, letting his wrist lock in the leather loop that extended from its base. This gave him a bit more distance from the creature without having to relinquish his weapon.

But it was not enough. The creature swung its wounded arm, clipping Voltag on the top of the head with its bloody forearm so that the dwarf stumbled and almost lost his grip on the axe. Now the other hand came up in a vicious raking blow. Voltag saw it coming. He reached his left hand over his right to block the arm. The creature grabbed Voltag's wrist.

Voltag now found himself with his arms crossed in front of his body. His right hand was in the loop of the axe stuck in the side of the creature. His left was held in the claw of the monster. The girl on his back continued to scream. He looked up and saw that the creature was lowering its mouth to bite him.

He gave a muttered curse then jerked his head to the side just as the creature snapped at him. He spun around so that his arms were uncrossed, but now he had his back to the creature. Before the thing could snap at the girl on his back, Voltag dropped to his knees, pulling the creature off balance. He brought both his hands to the ground and could feel the monster falling forward on top of him and the girl. Pushing himself backward just as it toppled, he passed between the thing's legs as it flipped over him and landed on its back on the stone pavement. It released his left hand during the fall. Voltag jumped to his feet, planted one foot on the creature's chest, and pulled his axe out of its rib cage. Before the creature could move, he decapitated it.

The girl continued to scream in his ear.

"Missy," he growled, "if you scream you'll upset Buttons."

The girl fell silent. Voltag surveyed the square. The two closest undead were coming from the direction of Kerimos and Yolanthe. His companions still had their hands full battling creatures that were shambling out of one of the buildings that fronted the square.

Voltag brought his axe up to speed and charged. He cut the head off the first creature then directed the axe to sever the arm of its companion. That didn't stop the creature so Voltag spun around with the momentum of the axe and cleaved its legs in two. As the thing toppled, he swung once more and decapitated the monster.

He ran to his friends at the edge of the square. Kerimos was laying into the lurching undead with his sword, cleaving heads from shoulders with business-like vigor. Yolanthe had put away her bow and was slashing at the creatures with a knife, but its reach was so short that she had to be careful not to be bitten as she attacked.

"Let me," shouted Voltag, stepping in front of her and swinging his axe through two undead. As they toppled he turned on the group converging on Kerimos. In seconds he had decapitated four of them.

When Voltag and Kerimos sheathed their weapons, a dozen dismember corpses lay at their feet. They scanned the square. The nearest zombie was at the far edge, blundering into a flaming barricade.

"Ruyla," said Voltag, "where are your parents?"

"The things got them," said the girl.

"Right," he said. "Then you stay on my back for a while longer." He turned to Kerimos and Yolanthe. "Well, let's get going."

Kerimos grimaced. "It will be hard carrying the girl."

"That's my concern," said the dwarf. "I won't fall behind. Just need to get her somewhere safe."

"Alright," said Kerimos. "We'll take the high street to the harbor. If it's blocked, there are alleys. We stay together."

The three looked at each other. Each nodded, then they turned and began to run.

As they reached the edge of the square, the sun went down.

Chapter Thirty

The Lord Baltrog was happy. He was standing on the Seatorn lighthouse watching the hated city being torn apart by its own dead. The kraken attack had been wonderful, really a great display of destruction, but hearing the screams of terror echo across the water to where he was standing was fulfilling in a way that even he had not expected.

And it would only get better. The sun was beginning to set. The darkness would bring new terror to the citizens of Seatorn. And as the undead claimed more victims, those victims themselves would become undead. The growth of zombies would be exponential. In a couple of hours, virtually the entire city would be peopled with the undead. And then Baltrog would cease to animate them and they could collapse to the ground. The only sound he expected to hear from the city come the morning would be the happy cawing of crows feasting on corpses. Then he would walk through the city, dispatching any survivors who happened to make it through the night, and finally he would burn the place to the ground. And finally he would collapse the entire city in upon itself, eradicating it from the earth.

Happy thoughts.

The only thing that stopped Baltrog from being completely happy was Grimestoke. The gnome was whimpering about the wound in his hand. It was really very selfish. Baltrog had waited ten years for this day, and now his pleasure was being tempered by the whining of his factotum. If he did not need the little man to run the augmenter, well, he would have kicked him off the lighthouse some hours ago. But as it was, the snivelling creature had to be endured. It was his machine that made it possible for Baltrog to animate so many dead. But really, he could be quiet.

The gnome shuffled over to Baltrog, clutching his wounded hand.

"Perhaps a healing spell, my lord?" asked Grimestoke, his face shiny with the sweat of pain.

Baltrog sighed. "I don't _do_ healing," he said. "Just grin and bear it. In silence."

Grimestoke gave Baltrog a dark look that the sorcerer did not deign to acknowledge, then went back to work on the augmenter. It was a surprisingly small machine that focused Baltrog's necromantic powers and spread them over a wide geographic area. With it Baltrog could animate hundreds, perhaps thousands, of corpses, and do it with the nonchalant ease that he would animate single corpse.

Yes, it was a marvelous invention, and yes, Grimestoke had been a valuable assistant, but after Seatorn was destroyed, would he really need the gnome at all? He did get on one's nerves. So self-interested. And so fussy. Perhaps he should just be chucked headlong into the sea, or blasted with some spell. It wasn't that Baltrog wanted him to suffer, just cease to be.

But that could wait. There was a night of fun ahead and he would not let the gnome ruin it. If Grimestoke whimpered again, Baltrog would seal his mouth shut with a spell.

###

Tinder stood in the shallow water of the first of the Necklace islands armed with a piece of driftwood. The tide was coming in, but not fast enough, and one zombie was wading towards her and the wounded she had brought to the island. It was the Seaguard who had been attacked in the rubble of the collapsed building. He was so newly dead that he had the strength to ford the tidal waters that were rising around the island.

Tinder realized she had only one chance to defend her charges. As the zombie drew closer she would have to hit it in the head with the heavy piece of wood she was carrying. A solid blow might take its head right off. The thing's neck was so torn that she could it spinal cord through its throat. Or she could knock it off its feet and hope that it would be carried away by the tide that pulled at her own calves.

The undead Seaguard was past the deepest part of channel that separated the island from the mainland. The water was just above its waist, and Tinder had hoped that it might slip and float away. But instead it kept coming, now rising out of the water some fifteen feet from her.

Behind her several children began to cry.

The stonemason called out encouragement. "Knock it down, missus! Kill the bloody thing!"

The zombie stumbled closer. It raised its arms to grab at her. It was within reach.

Tinder took a step back and swung the driftwood at the thing. She hit its right arm and was rewarded with a satisfying crack of breaking bone. The thing swung at her with its other arm and she found herself falling backward to avoid the blow. She tripped and fell into the shallow water, dropping her piece of wood. A cry of alarm went up from the people huddle on the island. Tinder crab-walked backward through the water until she was on the dry land of the island. She stood up and looked around frantically for another weapon.

"Here missus!" shouted the mason. He stumbled forward, clutching at the wound in his side. He had a hammer in his other hand.

Tinder grabbed the tool. It was heavy.

The zombie was almost out of the water.

Tinder took the hammer firmly by the handle and calculated her move. When the zombie took another step, she dodged to the right, coming in on the creature's left where its broken arm hung useless. The zombie started to turn towards her and raise its other arm, but before it could she hit it square in the forehead with the hammer. The blow snapped the creature's head right back as though it were on a hinge. It hung onto the neck by a flap of skin. The spine had severed neatly just below the jaw.

The creature stood for a moment, its sightless eyes staring straight up, then fell backwards into the water. The tidal current pulled the body away from the island.

The ragged crowd of survivors on the island let out a cheer.

"That's how you do it, missus!" said stonemason. "Right on the noggin!" He turned to others and shouted, "Hip hip hooray!" They all joined in the cheer and Tinder found herself, for all the pain and fear, happier than she had in years.

Chapter Thirty-one

When the sun set the streets of Seatorn became a maze of terror. The street lamps had not been lit and no citizens dared light candles in their windows for fear of attracting the undead. The narrows streets into which the starlight could not pierce quickly became warrens of black shadows. The undead stumbled back and forth in them, attacking buildings that contained the living, and quickly surrounding anyone foolish enough to come outside. Screams mingled with groans and the sounds of flesh being torn. The air smelled of fire and fear.

As the three fighters ran through the streets Yolanthe called out, "Tonight will be a half moon. But it won't rise for another hour."

"I don't need the moon," shouted Voltag. "Follow me."

He took the lead from Kerimos. The girl on his back did not slow him down – she weighed next to nothing – but she made it difficult for him to lead with his axe. The Grimm Mountain fighters were taught that to swing their axes in a broad figure eight across their chests when they had to attack on the run. Voltag would have liked to use that pattern now. It would have virtually filled some of the alleys he was running down. But the girl on his back meant that he would have to carry the axe prone and only bring it into movement when a target presented itself.

As Voltag ran he calculated their chances of survival. If the people killed by the undead turned undead themselves, they might be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. On the other hand, they were moving faster than any zombie could. That also meant that they didn't have to worry about attacks from behind as long as they kept moving. He could take out most monsters they might encounter, and Kerimos could dispatch the ones that he missed. Yolanthe, running in last place, did not have much to do, but that was fine. She should conserve her arrows.

There were only two potential problems. The first was getting caught in a dead end and being overwhelmed by undead. The second was reaching the lighthouse only to have Baltrog take over Yolanthe's mind. Voltag might have to kill her.

If Baltrog was there.

An hour later they stumbled out of the lane and found themselves at the harbor. The rubble of the destroyed buildings glowed under the rising moon. Voltag scanned the area for undead, but could see none in the immediate area.

Kerimos whistled. When Voltag looked over at him, he lifted his chin at the girl on the dwarf's back. Voltag had almost forgotten about her.

"Right," he said. "I'll find her a place."

'We'll meet you at the water,' said Kerimos. He and Yolanthe began to scrabble over the destroyed buildings towards the bay.

Voltag looked around for a structure that would keep out any undead that stumbled into the area. Down the street was a row of buildings that looked unhurt. He ran towards them. The tallest was a pub, the Square Rigger. Voltag kicked open the door. It was empty.

"Alright little miss," he said. "Time to get down. And don't forget Buttons."

The little girls extracted her hands from his hair and pulled the doll from his axe sheath. She clambered off his back.

"It's scary here," she said, looking around the deserted tavern.

'Scary? No, not scary at all," said Voltag. "See, we just need to light some lanterns."

He pulled flint and steel from his pocket and struck some sparks onto some tinder that he used to light candles and oil lamps. Soon the room was filled with light.

"Don't go," said Ruyla.

"Now, little miss, I need to go for a short while. And while I'm gone I need you to look after Buttons. Keep her warm and all that."

Ruyla looked doubtful, but finally said, "Okay."

"Right," said Voltag. "You get Buttons all cozy, and I'm going to go out and lock the door so none of those things can get in here, right? Then I'll come get you later."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Voltag hurried out of the tavern and dragged several beams from a destroyed building across the street to its door. He quickly cut notches into them with his axe and set them one into another to create a barricade that blocked the tavern door entirely. Satisfied that the door could only be opened by destroying his handiwork – something the undead did not seem to have the intelligence to do – he sheathed his axe and ran towards the water in search of his companions.

He found them scrabbling across the rubble-strewn waterfront.

Kerimos turned to him as he ran up.

"The tide is up," he said. "We won't be able to use the Necklace."

He pointed to the chain of islands that ran on their left out to the lighthouse. Voltag thought he could see a crowd of people on the first of those islands. Zombies caught there by the tide? Or people hiding from the zombies?

"We'll need a boat," said Kerimos.

Voltag whipped his head around. "A boat?" he asked. "We're going to float across the harbor?"

Kerimos looked askance at the dwarf. "Unless you can fly," he said. "Come on. There must be something we can use here."

He ran along the rubble-strewn shore, searching among the timbers and collapsed building for anything that would take them to the lighthouse. Yolanthe followed him. Voltag lagged behind, muttering to himself.

Ten minutes later they found a small dingy wedged between some lumber that had collapsed into the ocean. Kerimos ran down one of the broken beams and jumped into the small craft. Its bottom was full of water and scraps of wood.

"I don't think it's leaking," said Kerimos. "If we can find something to bail it, we should be fine."

While Voltag stared at the tiny craft, Yolanthe searched through the rubble. She came back with a large metal jug, dented in one side, and ran down the beam to join Kerimos in the dingy. He took the jug and began to bail.

"Find an oar!" he shouted to Voltag as he continued to scoop water out of the dingy.

Grateful for something to do, Voltag began to poke through the rubble. "An oar?" he muttered to himself. "Best get a coffin if we're going to ride in that thing." He found a plank that he trimmed with his axe into what he thought an oar looked like and climbed back over the rubble to the dingy. Kerimos had finished bailing and was inspecting the craft.

"It is leaking," he said. "But slowly. If one of us bails while we row, we should be fine."

"Leaking," repeated Voltag.

"Not badly," said Kerimos. He looked up at the dwarf on the shore. Voltag was holding the oar and chewing at his bottom lip. Kerimos turned to Yolanthe for an explanation of the dwarf's strange reticence. When Voltag saw her lean forward to whisper something to Kerimos, he shouted out, "I'm coming. Make way."

He clambered down the beam and jumped into the dingy, setting it rocking. Forcing a smile he said, "Well, let's get this tub on the water. No time like the present."

Kerimos handed Voltag the jug. "You bail," he said.

Yolanthe pushed the dingy off. Kerimos stood at the back and used the single oar to push then off.

As soon as they were clear of the wharf, Voltag felt his stomach lurch. They were floating in the ocean! There was nothing between them and the bottom of the harbor except for yards of cold water and a few scraps of fragile wood. The dingy rocked alarmingly and Voltag was sure that Kerimos would upset it with his awkward paddling. The dwarf began to bail frantically to take his mind off the retreating safety of the shore.

What could be more unnatural, he thought, as he scooped the cold salt water out of the rickety craft, than floating on the water? I'm not a duck or a fish. I'm a man. A man wearing chain mail. I would sink like a stone if the boat overturned. Or the kraken came back and knocked the dingy into splinters. Like a stone to the bottom of the sea. How long could a man hold his breath? When would the water rush into his lungs and suffocate him? Would he know he was drowning? Would he feel the weight of the water on his body? How cold would it be beneath the waves?

Yolanthe placed a hand on his shoulder. "Slow your breathing," she whispered in his ear.

Voltag realized that he was gasping for breath. His mouth felt dry while his skin was hot and flushed.

"I don't feel well," he muttered.

"Breathe slowly," Yolanthe repeated. "Bail slowly."

Voltag tried to control his breath. He scooped more water out of the bottom of the boat.

"We'll be there soon," said Yolanthe quietly.

"Must be seasick," said Voltag.

"Must be," agreed the half-elf.

Voltag set to work at a controlled methodical pace. It was better that way, he decided. Less chance of tipping the boat. Slow and steady. That was the way.

Chapter Thirty-two

"Baltrog!"

A voice was shouting from the base of the lighthouse. Baltrog looked over the edge, some fifty feet down to the rocks of the island. There, dripping wet, stood the slave dully illuminated by the moonlight.

"Ah, good master slave," shouted Baltrog. "What can I do for you?"

"There is no wand," shouted the slave. "You lied to my master."

"So I did," said Baltrog. "And you know, you'd be amazed how little remorse I feel for it. There's just something so inconsequential about giving your word to a _fish_."

The slave did not reply. He only stared up at Baltrog.

"Well," said the sorcerer impatiently, "if there's something else you have to say, let me hear it. I'm rather busy now destroying a city. No? Kraken got your tongue? Okay, just stay out of my way."

Baltrog turned his attention back to the city. The moon was rising and his view of the devastation was getting better the higher it climbed. He could see the smoking rubble of the harbor clearly in the moonlight. He could see the occasional person running along a wall, chased by the stumbling undead. And he could see something in the water making its way towards the lighthouse island. Refugees from the mainland, no doubt, hoping to hide from the zombies on the Necklace. Rather clever, that. And convenient. He would not have to wait for the tide to go out to enter the city. He could simply take the refugees' boat. They wouldn't be in much state to put up any resistance.

Baltrog's thoughts were interrupted by Grimestoke. The little man was tugging at his robe.

"My hand is getting worse," whined the gnome. "If you can't fix it, I'm going to go into the town and find some medicine."

Baltrog could not believe what he was hearing. "Into town?" he asked. "During my revenge? I've waiting ten years for this night. You can wait until morning to fix your hand. And besides, you can't get into town until the tide goes down."

Grimestoke, his face pale with pain, gritted his teeth. "You could cast a spell," he said. "Maybe a flying spell."

"A flying spell. Yes, good idea. Here." Baltrog spun Grimestoke around so that he was facing the town. "Get ready." Baltrog picked the little man up by the armpits and placed him on the low stone railing that encircled the top platform of the tower. "Now take a deep breath and say the magic word."

The gnome inhaled. "What's the magic word?" he asked.

"Gravity," said Baltrog. He pushed Grimestoke off the railing. The gnome screamed as he fell and made a satisfying crunching sound when he hit the rocks. Baltrog looked over the railing. Grimestoke's body lay in a twisted heap some five feet from the slave, but the slave did not seem to have noticed the near miss. He was standing with his arms raised above his head, the way he had in the sea cave. Baltrog could not be sure but he guessed the man had his eyes closed, communing with his squid. Absurd, really.

The satisfaction of dropping Grimestoke over the railing began to fade as Baltrog realized that he had no idea how to work the augmenter. He walked over to the machine. It was not large; it did not come up to his knees and it was not more than a foot wide and long. But it _was_ complicated. In the green light of the plankton tank it looked like so many metal and glass rods tied together with different coloured metal cors. Here and there levers and knobs poked out of the tangle but how they related to the structure as a whole, much less its operation, was beyond Baltrog. Something deep inside the machine was making a whirring noise. A few of the glass rods occasionally showed sparks of light, but he did not know what either of these signs meant. Was the machine working properly? Did he have to adjust it or, well, feed it somehow? He did not know. Grimestoke had spent a good deal of time bent over the machine, fiddling with his parts, but that may have been because of his own obsessive nature.

Baltrog decided not to worry about it. It had done its job, or most of it. Even if it broke down right now enough damage had been done to Seatorn that it would never recover. And he could animate a few dead easily without the aid of the machine. It just sped up the process of destroying the city.

But Baltrog had all night.

###

The boat bumped into something hard. Voltag had to bite back a shout.

"What was that?" he asked in a tight voice.

"We're here," said Kerimos.

Voltag allowed himself to look up. He had focused on the bottom of the dingy for the entire trip, bailing with single-minded purpose. They had reached the Necklace. The lighthouse towered over them.

"Me first!" he shouted happily. He grabbed his axe and sprang over the side of the dingy into the water.

He sank some five feet, the dark water swirling over his head. In his panic he realized that he had jumped over the wrong side of the boat. He had fallen off some ledge. He was upright, standing on a slippery rock surface, but he was underwater.

Drowning.

His axe! He thrust the axe above him, sensing it break the surface of the water. He swung it until it hit something hard. Not caring what it was he twisted the axe until he felt the blade hook on the object, then he pulled hard, hoping to drag himself from the water. Instead he tipped over the boat, sending Kerimos and Yolanthe sprawling into the water.

Chapter Thirty-three

Baltrog heard a splash. He looked down at the rocks just as two bodies tumbled out of the dingy into the water. Clumsy fools. Perhaps they were mad with fear. One could only hope. But at least their boat was now available.

The slave had not noticed the ruckus in the water. He still stood with his arms raised above his head.

Baltrog decided to hurl a destructive spell at both the slave and the people floundering in the water. He began to summon his magic focus when the augmenter made a sharp snapping noise. He turned to the machine just in time to see one of the glass rods crack and shatter. Its pieces tinkled to the floor of the lighthouse platform. The whirring noise of the machine slowed down then stopped completely.

Baltrog bent down beside the machine. It no longer sparked with light.

It was broken.

Out of habit Baltrog began to call for Grimestoke, then remembered that the little man lay dead on the rock below. Perhaps that had been a bit rash. But no cure for it now. He would have to head into the city a bit earlier than planned. Once there he could animate as many dead as possible until Seatorn was entirely ruined, then pick off any survivors with simple magic. It might actually be enjoyable to be in the center of the mayhem instead of watching from a distance. Then he would deliver the coup-de-grace. Those refugees on the rocks below had shown up just in time with a boat.

###

Kerimos and Yolanthe dumped Voltag on his back on the rocks. Kerimos linked his fingers together and pushed on the dwarf's stomach. Voltag vomited a great gush of salt water, then coughed violently.

"He'll be alright," said Kerimos, standing up. "But we've lost the element of surprise."

"My arrows are wet," said Yolanthe.

Voltag rolled over onto all fours and spat out more water. He grumbled something that may have been an apology. He looked up, abashed, at his two companions and said, "I'm not much of a sailor."

"You give yourself too much credit," said Kerimos.

Voltag noticed a strange figure with disproportionately long arms standing near the lighthouse. "Who's that?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Kerimos. "He's ignored us. Perhaps he's mad. Now let's see if Baltrog is here.

"Oh, he's here," said Yolanthe in a strange voice as she plunged her dagger into Kerimos' throat.

The man stepped back, clutching at the weapon in his neck as blood sprayed out around the hilt. His expression was one of surprise rather than pain. He collapsed to his knees beside Voltag and looked at him for an explanation. Before it could come, he fell on his face. His body twitched several times, and then was still.

Voltag was on his feet with his axe out before Kerimos stopped moving. He stepped back from Yolanthe and glanced up at the lighthouse. There, looking over the railing on the platform, he could see the shape of someone watching them.

"Get out of her!" Voltag shouted.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Yolanthe in a distorted voice. "You know, she didn't even feel it coming because I was so close. So she couldn't warn you. Now, before I kill you, tell me why you've been bothering me."

"I told you already," Voltag growled.

"Oh, yes," said Yolanthe. "A promise to kill me. Over that little misunderstanding in the mountains. Very quaint. But I think it has more to do with a certain Griselda."

Voltag felt as though he had been punched. "What do you know about her?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you for free. So let's make a deal. You kill this little archer, and then I'll tell you where to find your long lost love."

"Don't believe you," said Voltag, but there was little certainty in his voice.

"You don't, hmm?" Asked Yolanthe in that taunting voice. "Perhaps this will convince you. She's living in sin with a certain elf. A certain bard. A certain _Songweaver_."

Stunned, Voltag lowered the blade of his axe. Before he could ask his next question, Yolanthe pulled her bow and nocked an arrow in a movement so swift it was as if the weapon had materialized in her hands magically.

"But . . ." began Voltag.

"But nothing," said the voice.

Yolanthe pulled back on bowstring.

The wet bowstring broke. The bow jerked out of her hand as it snapped back to its un-strung shape.

Voltag brought his axe into a defensive pattern.

Yolanthe dropped the bow and pulled a second dagger from her belt. "Dear me," said Baltrog's voice through her mouth. "I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."

"You can't win," said Voltag. "Drop the weapon."

"Oh but I don't have to win," said the voice that issued from Yolanthe's mouth. "If I can't kill you, I can make you kill her. That might be just as much fun."

Yolanthe darted forward with the dagger. Voltag stepped back. He could bring his axe up to speed but then Baltog would just throw Yolanthe's body onto the blade. He could cut off her weapon hand, but she might bleed to death. And she might prefer death to mutilation.

Yolanthe lunged again, stabbing at the dwarf.

Voltag brought his axe up with the blade flat against his body, acting as a shield. The dagger blade sparked off of it. Yolanthe stepped to the side then spun around, the dagger held at arm's length. Voltag ducked as the blade whistled by his head.

"I won't stop," said Yolanthe.

She lunged again. Voltag blocked the strike with the axe blade, then swung the butt of the axe up, catching Yolanthe on the chin. She stumbled back, numbed by the blow. She wiped blood from her lip and smiled. "Now you're getting into it," she said. "Come on. Kill her."

Yolanthe lunged again, stabbing wildly at the dwarf. Voltag backed up, blocking the thrusts with the flat blade of his axe. He would only be able to do this for so long. Eventually he'd be pushed to the shore and she would keep coming at him, killing him or killing herself. No, he realized. Baltrog would kill her no matter what. Better it happened before he was stabbed so he could still go after the sorcerer.

With that realization, Voltag made up his mind. He would have to kill her. He was surprised how much the decision hurt him. All he could do was make sure that her death was painless.

He stepped back, pivoted and brought his axe up to speed. He knew Baltrog would force Yolanthe to run onto its blade. He would direct the axe swing so that she was neatly decapitated when that moment came.

Yolanthe threw herself forward towards the swinging steel.

Voltag could not help himself. He stepped back.

Yolanthe fell to ground, just out of reach of the axe.

Voltag knew he was postponing the inevitable. He stepped forward, over Yolanthe and swung the axe towards the outstretched back of her neck.

There. A tattoo. Just like the one on the owl. At the base of her skull.

The axe was descending towards her neck. Voltag brought his other hand to the handle while twisting his body to the side. The arc of the axe's swing veered to the horizontal. The blade sliced along the back of Yolanthe's neck, removing a thin piece of skin the size of a coin, slicing the tattoo off her body.

Yolanthe cried out. Voltag stepped back and brought his axe to rest. He sheathed the weapon, then knelt down and rolled Yolanthe over.

She opened her eyes slowly, a bewildered look on her face.

"He's gone," she said. "But my neck hurts."

"The Grimm cure," said Voltag. "Hurts for a while, but very effective."

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"Soon," Voltag promised. He stood up. "You bandage your neck. I'm going up that lighthouse."

Voltag ran to the base of the lighthouse. It was closely worked stone. Not up to dwarven standards, but not bad. It would offer no handholds to climb.

"Must be a door," he muttered to himself. He began to circle the base of the lighthouse, finally coming to a low wooden door on the far side. It was locked. Without thinking Voltag unsheathed his axe and attacked the door. It was inches thick, made of ancient oak hardened by salt water, but it was soon reduced to splinters before the blade of his axe.

Once the door was kindling, Voltag peered into the building. The ground floor was a circular storeroom filled with trunks, caskets, and cured meats. A brazier cast a dim light. A circular staircase curled up the inside of the wall into the darkness above. Voltag took a breath and began to run up the stairs. He only had one plan: kill Baltrog. Do it quick, before he uses some magic or other. Rush him and take him down with the axe. Simple. The element of surprise was on his side.

Or was it? Voltag slowed down. Baltrog would have seen how he had taken the tattoo off Yolanthe's neck. He would have heard him chopping the door. He could probably hear him storming up the stairs. We dwarves aren't known for our daintiness, he thought ruefully. There would be no surprising the sorcerer. Baltrog might get the drop on him with a blast of some confounded spell. Might turn him into something. Maybe even a fish. That would be the worst. Forced to spend the rest of his life in water.

What to do?

The blue liquid.

Voltag rummaged in his wet jerkin and found the vial of the gnome's blue potion. He pulled the cork and poured the viscous fluid over the blade of his axe, being careful to coat both sides. He threw the empty bottle away and continued up the stairs, treading as quietly as he could. The stairs led to a narrow balcony that ran around the inside of the lighthouse. A door that led outside was beside the top of the stairs. Baltrog had been standing in front of a door, so it must face the city.

Walking as quietly as he could, Voltag went to the other side of the balcony, directly opposite the door. He brought his axe up to speed, keeping it in shallow arcs because of the confined space. When the axe started to leave blue streaks in the air, he turned it on the lighthouse wall. The axe blade cut through the stones as though they were made of cloth. In a second, he had carved a door-sized hole in the wall which led to the exterior balcony. The sound of the rocks tumbling would have been audible to Baltrog, but Voltag doubted he would guess it was the sound of a door being cut in the building. To be sure, he stopped the swing of his axe and listened. No footsteps, just the sound of the waves.

Right, thought Voltag. Now a surprise charge. Out the door, bring the axe into motion, and charge around to the other side of the balcony catching the sorcerer off-guard and cutting him down before he has time to throw a hex. Good plan, but charge right or left? Don't matter, just get it over with.

Voltag took a breath and jumped through the hole into the Wall onto the balcony. The green light of the great glass tank was surprisingly bright and he could see that he would not have room to spin the axe. He would have to charge with it and attack with a single blow.

He turned to the right and started running along the curving balcony. As he approached the city-facing side of the balcony he tightened his grip on his axe, expecting to run into Baltrog at any second. But he wasn't there! There was only some sort of box-like machine that the dwarf ran around.

Must be running from me, though Voltag. Well, I may not be fast, but I'll never give up. He kept running and soon found himself passing the hole that he had cut in the Wall. He had gone full circle and not seen the sorcerer. He kept running and soon did another circuit of the lighthouse. Still no Baltrog. When he came back to hole in the Wall he stopped and peered into the tower. No one in there.

Must be staying on the other side of the tower from me, he thought, like a squirrel on a tree trunk hiding from its enemy. He turned around and ran the other way, hoping to catch the sorcerer off guard. He made a complete circuit of the balcony. Nothing.

He ran to the city-side of the balcony and called down to Yolanthe.

"Can you see him?" he shouted.

Yolanthe peered up at the dwarf who appeared in silhouette against the green light of the tank. There were no other figures visible.

Or were there? Something shimmered behind Voltag, a vaguely human shape that became more and more defined against the light of the tank.

Baltrog. He had made himself invisible.

"Behind you!" she shouted.

Voltag whirled to his left with his axe raised. Baltrog, still not entirely visible, was standing on the box-like machine. His normally expressionless face was contorted with rage.

Voltag charged forward. One more step and he would cleave the sorcerer in two.

He didn't make it. Baltrog threw a blast of energy into his chest, knocking him backwards. It felt as though someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. He hit the balcony railing hard and fell to his knees, winded.

"I have had enough of you little man," shouted Baltrog. "You're ruining everything. _Everything_. So die."

Baltrog focused his magic on the dwarf's throat, crushing his larynx. Voltag grabbed at his neck but he could not find the unseen hands that were squeezing the breath from his body. His vision began to blur and he felt as though his head would explode. He thought he might be able to reach the sorcerer before he was out of breath, but as if in response to the thought the grip on his neck tightened. He wasn't just being suffocated; his neck was being crushed. He fell on his face as he began to lose consciousness.

And then he could breathe. The pressure on his neck disappeared as quickly as it had come. As he gasped for breath he climbed to his feet and grabbed up his axe, wheeling on Baltrog.

The sorcerer was in caught in his own battle. The little man, the gnome, bloody, torn, and with an obviously broken arm, had his teeth sunk in Baltrog's thigh. Baltrog was beating at his head, apparently too surprised or angry to summon magic, while screaming invectives.

Kill them both now, thought Voltag. He brought his axe up over his shoulder and moved towards the struggling pair.

Baltrog looked up from his battle with the gnome and threw a spell at Voltag. His eyes glowed read and his face was twisted into a rictus of anger and pain. He made an fast movement with his hand at Voltag and again the dwarf was slammed in the chest, even harder this time. He flew backwards and hit the balcony railing. He lost the grip on his axe and it flew over the railing. He heard it hit the rocks below.

Stupid, he thought. My hand should have been in the thong. Stupid and rash.

Baltrog and the gnome were now rolling on the balcony, biting and throttling each other. Voltag thought he might be able to stab them both so he reached for his dagger. It was missing. He couldn't remember where he had lost it. In the water? Fighting the zombies? No matter. He didn't trust the tiny push daggers in his belt to do the job. Best get the axe. He felt unbalanced without it anyway.

He ran around the balcony to hole he had carved, charged down the stairs and out onto the rocks. He couldn't see his axe at first. It had fallen between two boulders. By the time he had found it Yolanthe had joined him. The wound on the back of her neck still bled profusely.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"Fighting the little fella," grunted Voltag. "I'm going back up to kill them both."

Before he could take a step something fell onto the rocks in front of them. They both jumped back.

It was the body of the gnome. His neck was turned around at an impossible angle.

They looked up to see Baltrog's form against the green light of the tank. The sorcerer was shaking with rage.

"I have had it!" he screamed. "Had it! Your stupid meddling is ruining the most important night of my life! Now leave me alone!"

He made a motion with his hands.

The dead gnome stirred.

"Must be losing his tricks," said Voltag stepping towards the undead little man. Before the creature could even get to its feet Voltag cut it in half at the waist with his axe. The two halves continued to twitch.

Voltag grunted in satisfaction then turned towards Yolanthe. Her face was twisted in horror. Before he could ask her what was wrong something smashed into the side of his head. He fell on the rocks beside the severed gnome.

Standing over him was Kerimos, the dagger still in his neck.

Voltag started to pull himself to his feet, his grip on his axe already set to deliver a severing blow to the zombie, but when he sat up he felt his axe hand pinned. He looked over to see the undead gnome had sunk its teeth into his sleeve. The upper half of the creature's body dangled on his arm.

While Voltag was trying to get his mind around the problem, Kerimos hit him again, swinging his arm in a great arc that clipped the top of his head so hard that he saw an explosion of lights. He fell back and found something clamped around his neck. It was the legs of the gnome, squeezing him.

"Some help,"he grunted to Yolanthe.

The half-elf looked around for a weapon. The undead Kerimos was strong and fast for a zombie, perhaps because he was so recently dead. Her bow was out of commission and a knife would do no real damage to the creature.

As Kerimos lurched over to Voltag and prepared to hit him again, Yolanthe dug through her wet quiver of arrows. She pulled out the driest of the soggy bunch, took a few steps back, and ran at the zombie. She leapt into a flying kick aimed at the zombie's head. It connected, sending the creature sprawling on the ground. Before it could get up she jumped on its chest and thrust the arrow deep into its eye, piercing the brain. The wound had no effect on the creature. It struggled to gain its feet.

Yolanthe leapt off the zombie and ran to Voltag. She pried the gnome's legs from off his neck. He sat up, the top half of the gnome still dangling by its teeth from his sleeve.

"Persistent little thing," he said. He stood up, held his encumbered arm out, and with a deft move of the axe severed the gnome's neck.

The head continued to hang onto his sleeve.

"What in Moradin's name?"

He was about to bang the head against the rocks when Yolanthe touched his arm and pointed. The undead Kerimos had regained its feet and was coming at them, the arrow sticking out of its eye a grim counterpart to the dagger in it throat. Before Voltag could say anything, Yolanthe chanted her spell for exploding arrows.

Nothing happened. Kerimos continued towards them.

"It may be too wet," she said.

The zombie stopped in its tracks. Its head twitched, as though it were trying to understand a complex problem. The movements made it look surprisingly alive. It took a hesitant step, then cocked its head hard to the side. Its eyes began to glow with a white light. The light became brighter, actually shining out of its eyes like a lantern. The same light began to pour from its open mouth, its nostrils, even its ears. With a sound of smashing bone, Kerimos' head exploded, raining brain matter and blood on the Voltag and Yolanthe. The body of zombie fell to the ground where it twitched spastically.

Yolanthe looked over at Voltag, who had turned his attention back to the gnome's head. He walked to a large, sharp rock, swung his arm in an arc, and smashed the head upon it. It took three swings to crack the skull and dislodge the tiny undead head.

"Finally," said Voltag. "Now, what's Ball-boy been up to?"

The two fighters turned their attention to the tower. There were now two forms silhouetted against the green light of the tank. One of them seemed to be a woman.

Chapter Thirty-four

It was maddening. So maddening that Baltrog thought his mind might explode with rage. Ten years of planning, ten years of waiting, ten years of deferred gratification, and it was all coming apart. Falling apart because Grimestoke hurt his little hand. Falling apart because some dirty dwarf and a feral half-elf had decided to meddle in his business. Well, it was going to end now. Right now.

He threw an animation spell at the corpse of Grimestoke and at Kerimos. That was just a distraction. Let them fight the undead for a minute then he would unleash all of his powers on the two. He would fry their brains in their heads. He would crush their bodies and eat their souls. Anger always made his magic stronger and now he was so angry he felt as powerful as a god. He would shatter them with a blast of necromantic magic fuelled by his towering rage.

There. The foolish dwarf was encumbered with the gnome. And the half-elf was looking for something to strike Kerimos. Their attention was diverted. Perfect.

He drew on his anger, channeling his white rage into that part of him that stored his magic potential. He felt that potential soar, fill like a giant urn with a waterfall of poison, poison he would unleash on the two fools below.

He raised his hands and began an incantation. He didn't bother to choose one. He didn't bother to specify the nature of the magic blast he would hurl. He let his instincts rule him. Whatever magic came out of him would be awesome and utterly deadly. He felt his mind in tune with the power that thrilled through his body. He felt like a mighty sword about to cleave a hapless victim.

"Edwin!"

Baltrog froze.

The voice came again. "Edwin!"

Baltrog shook his head. His anger was suddenly tainted by confusion. He knew that voice.

"Here!" The voice was coming from behind him. He turned slowly and saw a woman of middle years dressed in something torn. She was sopping wet. Her face looked oddly familiar in the green light of the lighthouse tank, but he could not place her. His anger, the potential for magic destruction, was slipping even as he wasted time looking at her. But there was something about her that compelled him. He couldn't turn away.

"It's me," the woman said. "Tinder."

Baltrog paused. "My name is not Edwin," he said in a shaky voice. Then, louder, "I am the Lord Baltrog. I don't know you."

"I knew you as Edwin," said Tinder. "The first boy I ever kissed."

Something clicked inside Baltrog's mind. He realized it was the magic potential that he had summoned. It had shut down, closed like a trapdoor. And this woman had her foot on the door, holding it shut. He would have to move her. But he was confused. She was saying such strange things.

"Nonsense," he said uncertainly. "You are deluded. Now scurry along while I deal with this dwarf."

"I held you the day your father died," said the woman.

Baltrog felt another shift in his mind. Some sort of knowledge was trying to make its presence known, as though it were a living thing pushing up into his consciousness, like a dream that brightened rather than faded on waking. He shook his head to stop it.

"I am the Lord Baltrog. I'm busy," he said.

"We used to do magic together," said the woman, "when we were children."

"I . . ." began Baltrog, but then he had to physically rub his forehead. Those thoughts, those dreams, whatever they were, were flooding into his mind, confusing him. He saw them now as images of an alley in Seatorn, of small floating lights, a mouse biting a hand, a dead fly buzzing, a moonlight row to an island – _this island_ – and a kiss with a girl named . . . Tinder.

He looked at the woman. Her lined faced meant nothing to him, but her eyes. In the green light they looked just like . . .

"You remember, don't you?" asked Tinder.

"No," he said, uncertainly, "not at all."

"You do." She took a step closer.

"No. I don't." Baltrog's voice was firmer. He _did_ know her. He _did_ remember her. It was all coming back, those events that he had burned out of his memory. The confusion was gone. Which was good, because now he could simply lie.

"You kissed me on this island," the woman said.

Baltrog sighed theatrically. "You are a deluded, sad woman in a hideous dress. I knew Edwin. He used to make jokes about you. Ungentlemanly jokes. I killed him many years ago. Now get back to your tavern or brothel and leave me alone before I break your neck like a twig."

The woman looks as though she had been slapped. She took a step back, drew back her shoulders, and said, "You're lying. I could always tell. Goodbye Edwin."

She stepped through the balcony door and started down the stairs.

Baltrog looked around the balcony. No gnome. No dwarf. No girls from the past. Finally alone.

He looked over the railing. There were the dwarf and the half-elf, looking up at him like stunned sheep. There was that ridiculous slave with his arms in the air. The woman would probably join them in a minute and make a fourth. A whole flock of stupid sheep. The zombies had been dispatched somehow, but that did not matter. It was time to clean house.

Baltrog drew a deep breath, composing himself. His anger had been replaced by an icy calmness. Not as powerful as the anger, to be sure, but more dignified and probably just as effective.

"My friends," he called out in a resonant voice, "I guess you're wondering why I've called you all here today." He paused to survey the sheep. "It's to join me in a celebration. A celebration of the extinction of Seatorn and a vindication of my father. Oh, there have been a few bumps on the road to this glorious night, but I assure you things are about to become very interesting, very interesting indeed. I've been distracted from my necromancy to the point that I fear the undead of Seatorn are now, well, just plain dead, but that does not signify. You see, like all military commanders, I have a alternative plan. Another strategy, just in case the first did not work out. It is not as emotionally compelling as the first, I will admit. I did so relish the image of Seatorn turned into a herd of undead , but what it lacks in élan it more than makes up with in simple efficiency."

He paused again. He could see the dwarf fingering his axe. The half-elf was practically quivering with frustration at the lack of her bow.

"So let me share my little plan with you," he said. "Two rivers flow into the ground just east of Seatorn. They pour into the great cisterns under the city that provide it with its wonderful drinking water and fountains. My father was one of the architects of those cisterns. A marvel of construction. An engineering miracle. But did the city care? Did they thank him every time the pump delivered their drinking water or the fountain splashed in the square? _They did not_. And now they'll pay. For you see, my father, genius that he was, built a device into the cisterns. A keystone. If it were dislodged, the cisterns would collapse, bringing the city with them. I'm the only one who knows about it for he told me the day before he was arrested. And I'm about to pull that little stone. Pull it right out and watch the city fall into the pits beneath it."

He waved at the city. "Oh, you may watch if you like."

###

Never in his life had Elros Uthadar been so happy for his job in the cisterns of Seatorn. Yes, he had the worst job in the city's water works – cleaning the waste sluice – but cleaning filth was better than being above ground when shambling dead things overran the city. No sir, he would take the sewers for a week before going outside for an hour this night. The things he had seen, peering up through sewer grates! The blood that had poured down on his head! It was unbelievable.

Old Seatorn Hawkright , bless his memory, had done him a favor all those years ago when he brought him into the cisterns and offered him a job. Elros remembered how frightened he had been, at first, to be _under_ the city, to hear the roar of the two rivers pouring through the culverts into the cisterns. And those cisterns! The size of them! They were like vast lakes with shores of hewn stone. But Hawkright had shown Elros the ropes, befriended him, treated him like a son, and he had never looked back. Life under the city suited him, he discovered. It was hard work, but rewarding. There were no crowds, no clutter.

It was like living in a secret cave. It must be how dwarves felt about their homes, thought Elros, idly scratched at the tattoo on his forearm. He had awoken with that one night after drinking too much a couple of years ago to find it there. Strange, but kinda pretty. An eye with waves behind it. Oh well. Back to work. Even if the city was going crazy the cisterns and sewers had to be kept clean.

What to do first? Oh yes, pull a special stone out of the arch above the engineer's platform. Shouldn't take more than a minute, then he could get back to the sewer lines.

Chapter Thirty-four

The dwarf and half-elf took a step back. Overwhelmed by the audacity of his plan, no doubt, thought Baltrog. Their tiny minds could barely comprehend the scale of the destruction he was about to unleash. Sheep. Foolish little sheep.

They were still stepping back. And now the half-elf was pointing at him. A backhanded form of respect, he supposed. She was so terrified by his genius that she was pointing at him and probably saying something to the dwarf. Something like, that man is the incarnation of evil. A form of respect, really.

It began to rain lightly.

But enough gloating. Time to set things off. Before dawn. The citizens would be so much more terrified in the darkness.

It was really raining, which was puzzling because the stars still shone brightly. There were no clouds.

Baltrog looked up. The stars were blinking off as though something was blocking them.

A wave of fish smell so strong it made him gasp invaded Baltrog's senses. The rain fell heavier and it seemed to be made of something other than water. Something slimy.

The stars were suddenly visible again, but now something huge was silently moving around the lighthouse, encompassing the top of the tower. Something impossibly huge, stinking, wet, and moving faster than something that size should be able to move. As it closed around the lighthouse just below the balcony, Baltrog recognized what it was.

The tentacle squeezed and the top of the lighthouse exploded.

###

Elros had the stone halfway out of its slot. Harder work than he thought it would be. But just a couple of more inches.

There was a flash of bright light. Or was it in his head? Whatever the case, Elros suddenly felt, well, different. And what was he doing pulling at this stone? That wasn't his job. Boy, if the chief engineer caught him he'd be in trouble. No, better push it back and get to work on the sewer lines.

###

The scale of the tentacle that rose behind the lighthouse drew gasps from Voltag and Yolanthe. At first they were not even sure what they were seeing was real, for the giant thing moved so fluidly and quietly it seemed a shape from a dream. But when it circled the lighthouse and began to squeeze the building just below the balcony that Baltrog was standing on, it massive reality became all too clear.

The stones of the lighthouse were crushed inwards but the top of the lighthouse seem to blow out. The great tank of phosphorescence burst, sending a wave of glowing green liquid onto the tentacle and the destroyed building. Cut stone flew into the air, timbers cracked like twigs, and nails popped out of joists. The tentacle lifted into the air, taking with it the rubble of the top part of the lighthouse and leaving behind a tower that looked as though it had been severed with a blunt axe. The tentacle rose high and higher, towering above the ruined lighthouse, still clutching pieces of rubble and, Voltag thought, a body.

The tentacle moved away from the shore, back out into the sea, then slammed down into the water. A huge wave surged from the impact, heading straight for the island. As Voltag watched, that wave flooded over the low rocks of the ocean-side of the island and kept coming, submerging the island as it went. A ten-foot high wall of water was roaring at him.

He looked around in a panic. Maybe if he got to the base of the lighthouse the wave would be split by that building and go around him. But even as the thought formed the wave hit the lighthouse, split around it and rushed towards him. He just had time to register that Yolanthe was bracing herself to be hit by the water while the man with the gills was staring at the rushing wall of water impassively.

Voltag roared in frustration as the water hit him, knocking him back and off his feet, choking his voice with cold salt water. Pieces of wood and strands of seaweed lashed him as he was tumbled off the island and into the harbor. He kicked and flailed his arms in an attempt to keep his head above water but the force of the wave was too great. After what seemed an eternity the wave began to slow. Voltag windmilled his arms wildly, finally managing to bring his head to the surface just as the wave lost its force and flattened into the water of the harbor.

Struggling to keep his head above water, Voltag looked around. The water was rough from the kraken's splash so he could only see any distance when he rode to the crest of a wave. He caught glimpses of pieces of wood and other flotsam, but no people. He was hundreds of feet from the island. An impossible distance. The weight of his chainmail and axe were pulling him down. He could feel the cold water in his boots acting like an anchor dragging him towards the bottom.

He began to shout for help, then stopped himself. There was no one who could hear him. He was alone. Pushing down the panic in his chest he forced himself to face the truth: he was going to drown.

Not what I wanted, he thought. Not the right way for a Grimm to die. Should have stayed in the mountain, swallowed my pride. Now it's a watery death.

His arms began to tire.

Stupid, he thought. I've been a stupid vengeful man. Too proud for my own good.

The sun broke over the horizon, sending a beam of light across the water. Voltag could see that the Clasp was now empty of people, even the body of the gnome had been washed into the sea. There was no sight of the kraken. The shattered top of the lighthouse was the only evidence it had ever been there.

Voltag pushed at the water one more time with exhausted arms, took a gulp of air, then let himself slip under the surface. As the light receded and he sunk into colder and colder water, he forced himself to think of Griselda.

###

When the wave rushed towards Yolanthe she turned and ran in the direction it was headed. When it swept her off her feet she leapt forward, arms extended, allowing herself to be carried by the wave's force but not tossed by it. The force of the wave held her under water for what seemed an eternity, but she did not panic. She waited for its power to abate before swimming to the surface. When her head broke free of the waves she scanned the water for Voltag. She knew he would drown in minutes, if not seconds, without help.

The salt water stung the wound on the back of her neck. She waited for a wave to raise her slightly in the water, and scanned around quickly.

There, in the trough of a wave some 100 feet away, what might be Voltag's head. She began to swim towards it.

A hand grabbed her foot.

###

Tinder had been sitting on the bottom stair inside the lighthouse, weeping in frustration and exhaustion, when the kraken struck. She looked up to see the stone walls at the top of the structure implode under an impossible force and she jumped under the staircase before debris could come smashing down. She curled herself into a ball as stone and wood rained down on the circular floor of the lighthouse, some of it covered in noxious slime.

When the debris stopped falling she carefully crawled out of her hiding spot and looked up. The entire top of the lighthouse was missing. She looked at the smashed open door. A wall of water was rushing at her. Before she could react, it slammed into the base of the lighthouse and flooded through the door. She was pushed across the floor by its force, banging into chests and trunks. In seconds she was chest high in cold water grabbing at floating pieces of wood and wondering how high the water might climb. She tried to push herself towards the staircase but the water swirled so violently in the crowded space that she was swept off her feet. Just when she thought she might be crushed or drowned the water began to recede. In minutes she found herself slumped on the ground, cold and bruised, but alive.

She climbed over a trunk that had jammed in the doorway when the water retreated and stepped outside. The green light of the lighthouse had been replaced by the red glow of an approaching dawn. In its dim light she could see that the surface of the island had been entirely wiped clean. The dwarf, the half-elf, the others. They were all gone. And so was Edwin.

But what about her wounded friends on the other island? Had the wave reached that far? Tinder could not see them in the dim light, so she ran to the edge of the island nearest the rest of the Necklace, threw herself in the water, and began to swim.

Chapter Thirty-five

Voltag's vision of Griselda's face came swimming out of blackness. Those mismatched eyes, the dimples, her broad strong teeth. But she was so cold. And wet. And there was a red glow behind her that grew until her face began to fade. She was leaving him. Again.

He forced his eyes open to find another face close to his, shining in the low morning sunshine.

Yolanthe.

Voltag coughed. "I'm not drowned?" he asked.

"Not yet," said Yolanthe. "But the third time's the charm."

"What happened?" asked Voltag. He had no intention of moving. His body was bruised and numb. Even his beard hurt.

Yolanthe told him how they had been swept from the island by the wake of the kraken and how she had tried to swim to him. When she got to the spot where he had gone down a hand had grabbed her leg. The hand belonged to the strange man with the gills. He surfaced beside her and she begged him to find Voltag. He swam down and pulled the dwarf to the surface by his beard. The two of them squeezed the water from his lungs, and brought him back to the lighthouse island.

"He saved your life," said Yolanthe.

Voltag's heart sunk. Another obligation. He had to stop relying on people to save him.

He rolled on to his side, then up on all fours. He spat out seawater and picked some seaweed from his beard. No time like the present, he thought, forcing himself to his feet.

The man with the gills was sitting on the ground watching the sunrise. Voltag crossed over to him and cleared his throat. The man did not respond.

"I'm obliged to you," said Voltag. "I am Voltag Grimm of the Grimm Mountain tribe. What's your name?"

"I am my master's sl . . ." The man did not finish the sentence. He turned to look at Voltag. His scarred face showed utter bewilderment.

"He's gone," he said quietly.

"Who's gone?" asked Voltag, growing concerned.

"The master," said the man with amazement. "He's freed me. I'm free."

"You mean the fish?" asked the dwarf.

"Yes. He's freed me. He's not in my mind. I'm free."

Voltag smiled. "It's a day for freeing minds," he said.

The man began to smile, then caught himself and shook his head.

"There's something else," he said. He whispered in amazement: "I remember my name."

Chapter Thirty-six

Tinder stood at the vegetable stand and stacked onions. They were nice ones, firm and large, and they would fetch a good price. She had bought the stand from the old biddy who used to own it with the coin that the dwarf had given her. That, and the price she got for her room in the tavern, had allowed her to take two rooms in the building behind the stand. She knew that the owner of that building would like to sell in the future. She wondered if she could make an offer and move her wares inside. Perhaps offer something beside vegetables. So many of the buildings in the harbor had been destroyed the sailors had nowhere to buy their supplies. A general store might do very well.

In the middle of making these plans she stopped. With a start, she realized that she was planning a future, a future that lay well beyond a bottle of wine in the corner of a tavern. Indeed, she had not been in a tavern, not had a drink, since the day of the kraken attack almost a month ago. Sdid not even _want_ one.

And she felt something else. Something so foreign, so long forgotten, that she had troubled put a word to it. But there it was. She was happy. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she was happy.

Ruyle came out from behind the stand carrying carrots in her apron.

"Can I stack these ones?" she asked.

"Of course you can," said Tinder. "But after that it's time for your bath."

"Do I have to?" she asked with a pout.

"Yes you do," said the stonemason from the doorway of building.

###

Harry Bandle looked around his tavern. At least half the town was there and they were talking to each other in ways they hadn't in years. They were laughing and arguing, discussing local issues and bragging about accomplishments. It was a scene that Harry thought he would never see again, but here it was.

The change had started about a month ago. There had been no visits from the Lord Baltrog or any of his minions in a month before that time. No new monster of a sheriff had been appointed to the town. For weeks the townspeople took this to be the lull before the storm and had braced themselves for some new horror, some new tax or punishment. But when it didn't come, people cautiously began to resume a life they thought they had lost forever. Children began to play outside again. Members of the old village council reformed and an election was held. Tom Irontone was appointed sheriff (he hadn't had one of his spells in two months). It wasn't perfect – there were arguments and petty disputes about land and titles – but it was real life lived without fear. It was a community again.

The door of the tavern swung open and a dwarf stepped in followed by a half-elf. The room fell silent. Harry recognized the man. It was Grimm, the dwarf who had brought so much of Baltrog's wrath on the village, the one who said he would protect Harry and kill the lord. He was back, and that could only mean more trouble. And the ranger, the woman who had shot the rope that was hanging the dwarf. She was back too.

The dwarf and half-elf crossed to the bar and climbed onto stools. Every face in the room was turned towards them, some with looks of resentment but most with fear. The dwarf looked back at them, one by one, making eye contact then moving on to the next. Finally he turned to face Harry Bandle.

"Baltrog is dead," he said. "And I would like a drink."

No one moved; no one breathed.

Finally Harry spoke. "Dead?"

"Dead," said Voltag. "Drowned like a herring."

Still unsure of what he had heard, Harry turned to Yolanthe. "Dead?" he asked.

"Baltrog is dead," she said.

Still no one moved. Then, at the back of the tavern, Tom Irontone stood up. The other tavern patrons turned in his direction when they heard his chair scrape back. Irontone raised his mighty hands and began clapping. The fellows at his table stood and began clapping too. In a few second the entire room was standing and applauding. Some began to whistle, others began to hoot. A few took off their caps and threw them in the air. Glasses were raised in the traveller's direction. A few young men ran out of the building to spread the news to the town.

"About that drink," said Voltag to Harry.

"You may drink here the rest of your days and not pay a coin," said the barkeep.

"Aye, but I've got a special thirst," said Voltag. He rummaged around in his pack and came up with a dusty bottle of green liquor.

Harry recognized it immediately. It was Yollithian wine, the same as the bottle that he had poured for Baltrog, the same that he had hoped to save until the day his brother returned.

"Where did you find this?" Harry asked.

"Ask me no questions," said Voltag tapping the side of his nose. "Now, who should we share this with?" He looked around the tavern at the revelers. "They all seem a bit busy."

Voltag gave a wink to Yolanthe who put two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. The tavern patrons fell silent at the sound and turned expectantly towards the travellers, hoping for some other piece of good news. Instead, the tavern door opened. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the dying light of the day, was a tall man. With a hesitant step, he entered the tavern. When he moved into the candlelight of the tavern, a few patrons gasped at his appearance. He was dressed in passable, but ill-fitting clothes, and he walked with difficulty, but what shocked the patrons were the circular scars on his face and the strange fleshiness of his neck. He wore an eyepatch. He approached the bar and looked at Harry Bandle.

The two men stared at each other. The stranger seemed afraid of Harry, as though he didn't know what the barkeep might do at his appearance. Harry stared at the man with total bewilderment, a bewilderment that slowly turned to recognition, then to disbelief, and finally to wonder.

"John?" asked Harry.

"Harry," said Captain Bandle.

###

At some point during the party the dwarf and half-elf slipped out of tavern. A child kept awake by the noise from of the tavern was later to say that she had seen the two talk for a while in the town square. She said they had exchanged a clumsy embrace. Then the half-elf had turned and run straight into the woods, up the slope of the mountain. The dwarf watched her go, then straightened his pack on his back and took the road leading to the great plains, stopping once to look back at the forest into which the ranger had disappeared.

But who can trust the word of a sleepy child?

Epilogue

He held his breath for as long as he could. He held it as he was dragged down, out of the light. He held it as the water grew colder and colder. He held it even as the pressure of the water began to build, threatening to blow in his eardrums.

And finally he could hold his breath no longer. The crushing pressure of the water collapsed his lungs. He vomited forth what air he had left and felt the pain of the cold salt water rush into his nose, and throat, and fill his lungs. It hurt more than anything could hurt, and then his mind shut down.

But then there was more pain.

He was throwing up water, gasping for breath and flopping around on some slippery surface. He was on his hands and knees, racked with agony and shivering uncontrollably. He felt that his flesh was torn where the great kraken had held him and he was sure several of his ribs were broken.

But he was alive and he was breathing, though the air was so foul with scent of decaying fish that he wished he wasn't.

Slowly his body stopped its spasms. He drew a painful breath and looked up.

A crowd of some twenty people stood in a loose circle around him. They were the most pathetic creatures Baltrog had ever seen. Their skin was so pale it looked translucent. They all bore the scars of the kraken's suckers and other scars besides – infected wounds, badly set broken limbs – that showed through the putrid rags they wore. Most were missing teeth, their gums inflamed with scurvy. Most had lost their hair.

The space they stood in was a huge shelf in a sea cave, lit dimly by some natural phosphorescence on the rocks. Cold water dripped constantly from the ceiling. There were no exits out of the cave save through the black water that lapped at the shelf. They were clearly deep below the ocean, at a depth that no man could ever hope to swim, trapped in this small pocket of foul air.

The floor of the cave that Baltrog kneeled on was covered inches deep with slime. Fish bones and scales poked up through it. Baltrog jerked his had back when he felt something move in the slime. It was a long, white worm. Indeed, the slime was alive with a myriad of disgusting creatures, feeding off the rotting fish carcasses.

One of the people shuffled forward through the slime to Baltrog. He was a man, but it was impossible to tell his age. His skin was so pale, wet, and scarred that he could have been a hundred, but was probably in his twenties. Baltrog noted that his fingernails had rotted off and that his skin was puckered from the constant moisture of the slime.

"Welcome to your new home," said the man. He bent down and plunged a hand into the slime. It came up clutching the worm that had frightened Baltrog. The man held the squirming monstrosity at arm's length.

"Lunch?" he asked.


End file.
